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t A 


WILLY BURKE; 


OR, 

/ 

THE IRISH ORPHAN IN AMERICA. 

BY MRS. J.' SADLIER. 

«. 1 1 


Let not ambition mock their useful toil. 
Their homely joys, and destiny obscure ; 
Nor grandeur hear with a disdainful smile. 
The short and simple aimals of the poor. 

> Grat. 


BOSTON : 

prBUBHTD BT PaTRIOZ DONAKO*. 

1860. 


( 



,S\St 




Entered according to act of Congress, in the 
year 1860. 

BY PATRICK DONAHOE; 

In the Clerk’s office of the District Court of 
Masssachusetts. 




CHAPTER I. 


THE DEPARTURE FROM IRELAND, AND DEATH 
AT SEA. 

It was a sorrowful day in a certain parish of 
the county Tipperary, when Andy Burke, one 
of the principal farmers of the district, set out 
with his numerous family for “ the land of the 
Far West.” In their day of prosperity, Andy 
Burke and his worthy help-mate had been 
public benefactors — the comforts by which 
they were surrounded were liberally shared 
with their poorer neighbors, and their house 
had ever afforded a shelter for the houseless 
wanderer. Like Goldsmith’s curate, “ the 
long remember’d beggar was their guest, ” 
year after year, and the warmest nook in the 
Avide kitchen was ever reserved for the poor 
wayfarer. Their children had grown up amid 
the prayers and blessings of the poor, and now 
when the hand of misfortune weighed heavily 
on them all — when the good farmer found it 
necessary to emigrate with his family to Amer- 


4 


ica, in order to procure" for them some sort of 
establishment, the event was regarded as a ca- 
lamity in which the whole neighborhood shar- 
ed. In those days (some twenty years ago") 
emigration was not what it now is, and he or 
she who set out for a land beyond the sea was 
regretted almost as though the grave were 
about to shut him in for ever. It is true that 
America was then regarded by our simple pea- 
santry as a “ land flowing -with milk and ho- 
ney” — or, to speak less meta^orically, as the 
land of gold and silver, where wealth rolled on 
in a ceaseless stream, and to be caught needed 
but to reach out the hand. But then the pe- 
nalty — the dread penalty — which must flrst be 
paid — the separation from home and country — 
the dangers of the ocean, fearfully exggerated 
in the mouths of rustic narrators, and the 
length of time which it then took to perform 
the voyage. All these conspired to make it 
an undertaking of great difficulty and much 
danger, and El Dorado as it was, it had but 
few charms for either Burke or his wife. The 
latter especially had many and sad misgivings 
as to the result of the step they were about 
taking, and to the very last she could scarcely 
bring herself to look forward with hope. It 
was the Sunday evening before their departure 
when the worthy couple sat together in melan- 


5 


choly mood, talking over the matter so often 
discussed before. 

“ Well, after all, Andy,” said his wife, “ I 
can’t help thinkin’ that it would have been as 
Avell, ay, an' better, for us to stay at home, 
where, if we came to throuble or dissolation, 
we’d have the ould neighboxirs and friends 
about us to comfort us.” 

“ An’ sure there’s ne’er a one knows that 
betther than myself, Biddy, asihore machree, ” 
said Andy, as he took the pipe from his mouth 
and laid it on the hob (i. e. back-stone) beside 
him, “ but then, as I often tould you before, 
this poor ould country’s growin’ every day 
worse an’ worse, an’ where’s the prospect for 
a large family risin’ up about us ? Sure, as i^ 
is now, it’s jist all we can do to pay the land- 
lord and the tithe-proctor, and all the rest, so 
that we’re only Avorkin’ the skin off our bones 
for them that does’nt thank \is ; and when the 
boys an’ the girls are grown up what have they 
before them here but a life of hard labor, an’ 
nothin’ for it — that’s the worst of all. No, no, 
affra ! for their sakes we must go to the strange 
country, while we have a little money in our 
hands, for if we waited some time longer it 
’ud slip through our fingers, and lave us with- 
out the manes of goin’ any where.” 

“ Well, I know it’s all true enough, Andy 


6 


dear,” rcpKed Bidd3'-, with a heavj' sigh, “ an 
I’m not the one to gainsay what I know is 
God’s tliruth, but then would’nt it be betther 
to live in poverty here, where we have our 
chapel an’ our priest vithin a mile of us — an’ 
where we have the comfort of seein’ good 
Christians all about us, than to be livin’ ever so 
grand in a sthrango countrj', where they say 
you’d may be have to thravel hundreds o’ 
miles without seein’ a priest or an altar ? Sure, 
would’nt it be betther to see the childher beg- 
gin’ their bread, or livin’ on some good Chris- 
tian’s flure, for their bit an’ sup, than to en- 
danger the loss of their sowls ? Is’ntthe bles- 
sin’ o’ God, an’ the happiness of livin’ in his 
holy church, beyant all the riches in the 
world ?” 

“ Thrue enough, Biddy, thrue enough, an’ 
sure it’s yerself has always the good thought 
with you, but there’s no use frettin’ about it 
now when everything is ready to set out in the 
momin’.” Here some of the children ran in 
to say that Father Maloney was coming up the 
boreen, whereupon there was a general move, 
and all went to the door to receive the priest, 
who had come on purpose to pa}' a farewell 
visit, and leave his benediction with a family 
which stood so high in his estimation. It was 
now drawing towards evening, and one after 


7 


another the neighbors entered, each one re- 
verently saluting the priest, and having receiv- 
ed a friendly word or smile, retired to where 
some friend was seated, if possible near some 
of the Burke family, who were of course the 
objects of all attention. Around the wide 
hearth was drawn a circle consisting of the 
priest, Andy Burke and his wife, and some ten 
or twelve of the older neighbors, of both sexes. 
The remainder of the large kitchen was crowd- 
ed with youug people — boys and girls, men 
and women, — while here and there amongst 
them might be seen the yormg sons and daugh- 
ters of the house, each forming the centre of a 
little group. And the children, amazed at 
finding themselves suddenly so important, 
waxed forward and loquacious, and chatted 
away more flippantly than they had ever done 
before. About nightfall a stir was visible 
about the door, giving reason,so suppose that 
some distinguished arrival had taken place, and 
a voice was heard saying, “ Arrah, then. 
Tommy Cooney, will you jist take your long 
legs out o’ the master’s road ! Mrs. Burke ; 
ma’am, here’s master Dogherty, but the sorra 
bit o’ him can get in, at all, at all !” A way 
was instantly made for the honored guest, and 
Biddy herself came forward with both hands 
outstretched, and a cordial “ God save you* 


8 


masther.” "God save you kindly, Mrs. Burke,*’ 
was the old man’s quick reply, as she led him 
up to a seat beside the priest, “ sure I came to 
see the last of the boys and girls, and to give 
ye all an old man’s blessing — where are the 
little ones ?” 

" Here, master,” — and "here” — and “here” 
— and before the worthy pedagogue could find 
time to make a suitable reply to Father Malo- 
ney’s friendly salutation, he found himself 
surrounded by the younger children, four in 
number, while the two elder, a boy and a girl, 
hung timidly back, awaiting their turn to re- 
ceive the honor of the master’s notice. Even 
when the good man had taken the seat placed 
for him by Biddy, he had one of the children 
on either knee, c^essing each in turn. 

" God knows, your reverence,” said the 
schoolmaster, addressing the priest, " God 
knows, this fam*ily is a loss to the whole pa- 
rish, for old and young of them were an ex- 
ample to all — sure, I may say it now, as they’re 
going away from me, I had’nt the like of these 
children in my school ; and I declare to you. 
Father Maloney, I loved them as if they were 
my own flesh and blood.” 

“I do not at all doubt it, Mr. Dogherty,” re- 
joined the priest, " and I have only, for my 
part, to wish that they may continue, when 


in a foreign land, as good and docile as you 
and I have ever found them. To this end we 
have to pray that God may spare to them their 
worthy parents.” 

“An’ I hope, children,” said master Dogher- 
ty, wliile his voice trembled with emotion, 
“an’ I hope ye’ll not forget the poor old man 
that taught ye how to road your prayer-books 
— an’ that ye’ll remember him in your pray- 
ers — an’ never be ashamed of your country, as 
they say some grow to be — but always be proud 
of being bom in poor old Ireland, because it 
was, ay, and it is, the Island of Saints, — and 
above all, children, ye’ll be mindful of the old 
faith — the old religion that ye learned here at 
home ; for ye may be sure that if ye forget it, or 
let yourselves be drawn away from it, ye have 
no chance for happiness in the world to come. 
Think of this, an’ remember that ye have of- 
ten heard his reverence here say from the al- 
tar, that “ there is but - the one thing neces- 
sary.” Each of ye have but one soul, an’ if 
you lose it what will become of you ?” 

'The children listened with downcast ej'es, 
while not only their parents but all the imme- 
diate auditors were affected even to tears by 
the touching solemnity of the old man’s ac- 
cents. Meanwhile there was a running fire of 
question and answer going on at the low'er end 


10 


of the kitchen. Many stories were told of 
wonderful fortunes made in a short time in 
America, and of marvellous adventures which 
there befel sundrj' persons mentioned. Excit- 
ed by these narratives many of the young peo- 
ple were heard to wish that they had the 
means of going. “An’ it is’nt the money, ai- 
ther, that ’id keep me at home,’’ said one young 
fellow, “ for, with God’s help, I could raise as 
much as 'id take me, but then the ould mo- 
ther yondher ’id never hear o’ me goin’, and > 
troth, if it was’nt for her I’d be oif with the 
Burkes.’’ 

“ An’ me too, Ned,’’ cried Larry Gallagher, 
his friend and neighbor, “ only my father 
would’nt hear tell of it — he says it’s an unna- 
tural thing to leave poor ould Ireland, where 
we were bred an’ born, an’ our generations 
afore us. But maybe he’d give in some day, 
afther all, an’ then it ’id be ‘ hey for Ameri- 
ca,’ — an’ I’d have my share o’ the goold or I’d 
know for what, bedad I would.’’ 

As the family were to start before day-light 
the following morning, their beds were all 
packed up, and though they had been solicited 
with genuine Irish warmth to bestow them- 
selves for the night on various of the neigh- 
bors, yet they declined, thinking it useless to 
seek repose which must have been so very 


11 


short. It was, however, arranged that the 
younger children should sleep in the next 
house, and accordingly they were sent early 
to bed, — not, however, before the priest had 
given his blessing to the whole family. About 
nine o’clock. Father Maloney took an affection- 
ate leave of those whom, as he said, he was in 
all probability to meet no more on this side 
the grave, and it was observed that as he rais- 
ed his hand over the head of each individual 
and breathed an inu'ard prayer, only percep- 
tible by the motion of his lips, that his aged 
eyes, when he raised them to heaven, were dim 
udth tears. When he turned to go away, he 
fdVind that all present were kneeling in ex- 
pectation of his blessing, and as he passed 
along he made the sign of the cross, invoking 
the divine benediction on these humble, faith- 
ful Christians — so sublime in the ^trusting ear- 
nestness of their devotion. He had almost 
reached the door when Andy Burke’s second 
son, a boy of eleven or twelve years old, was 
clinging to his coat. 

“ I want you to bless me again. Father Ma- 
loney,” and the tears were chasing each other 
over the child’s rosy cheeks. “ An’ I hope 
you’ll pray for me, and daddy, and mammy, 
and all of us,” he added, “when we’re far 
aAvay from you.” 


12 


. •• God bless you, my boy ! God bless you, 
and mark you with grace ! — you have always 
been a good, dutiful child, and may you con- 
tinue to be a consolation to your poor parents 
in the strange land whither they and you are 
going ! Be assured, Willy, that if my poor 
prayers can obtain favor for you all from Al- 
mighty God, they shall not be wanting.” The 
good man spoke in a thick, husky voice, and he 
hastened away, e^ndently desirous to hide his 
emotion. 

The rest of the company declared their in- 
tention of remaining over night, so as to ac- 
company the Burkes some miles of the way 
on the following morning, and the night-hours 
passed away in sad but friendly cotiversation. 
About the middle of the night the rosary was 
said, being read aloud by Master Dogherty, 
and responded to by all persent, young and 
old. It was, and still is, the pious custom of 
our people to approach the sacraments imme- 
diately before their departure from Ircland,and 
this consoling duty had been faithfully perform- 
ed by the family in question, who had all, with 
the exception of the youngest child, (who was 
only six years old) received the holy commun- 
ion on that memorable Sunday in their parish 
church, and from the revered hands of Father 
Malony. Beautiful is the piety — the simple 


13 


and unostentatious piety of the peasantry of 
Ireland, — beautiful when at home in their own 
loved island of sorrow, — it sustains their sink- 
ing souls in poverty, and harship, and grievous 
"■ privation, — and not less lovely it is when we 
find it strengthening and fortifying their souls 
against temptation in the foreign land, where 
perchance it is treated with ridicule and con- 
tempt by the half-infidel scoffers of the world. 
Aye, still more radient are then its divine lin- 
eaments, — its truthfulness, — its humility, and 
its mildness, when brought into contrast with 
the proud, arrogant, doubting spirit of the age, 
— the cold, sceptical age in which we live ! It 
was still dark, on that Monday morning, when 
the comfortable ‘ homestead of Andy Burke 
was left to utter loneliness, — when the family 
that had for so many long years nestled in 
peace and love beneath its well-,gmoked roof- 
tree, set forth as wanderers for a distant, and 
to them, unknown country, — carrying with 
them little but the hoarded faith of their fa- 
thers, and the love and respect of their humble 
neighbors. Yet these were blessings, — great 
and consoling, and so did Andy Burke and his 
wife regard them. Like the dove, sent out 
from the shelter of the ark, they went forth 
over the world’s waste, unknowing where they 
should find a resting place, but their souls 


14 


were in peace amid all their sorrow, for they 
were filled mth an humble yet lively confi- 
dence in God. Some of the convoy (as these 
processions are called ) being on foot, went but 
a few miles of the journey, and then returned 
home, with many a fervent blessings on th e 
heads of the travellers. Others who were var- 
iously mounted, some on horseback,and others 
on the wheeled cars of the country, accompan- 
ied the Burkes to the town whence they were 
to embark for Liverpool, and it was already 
noon-day when they all stopped before the 
steam-boat office. 

At length the final moment came, and it was 
one of severe trial. The friendship of years 
was rent asunder, as though by death, and 
they who had grovm up side by side, — whose 
childhood, and youth, and maturity had pass- 
ed together, were now parted, as they sadly 
felt, “ to meet no more on earth.” But here 
again came in the consoling aid of their com- 
mon faith, and with the parting grasp of the 
hand were spoken such touching assurances as 
these: — “Well! God be mth yees all! — an’ 
sure, when yees are all far away, we’ll never 
let ye out of our mind nor our hearts. With 
God’s help we’ll never forget to offer up the 
pather an’ avy night an’ mornin’, for your wel- 
fare, an’ when we’re sajdn’ the rosary in the 


15 


chapel above, sxire everj' body 'ill keep yees 
in mind. An’ I pray God, Andy Burke and 
Biddy, an’ childhre dear, that we may all meet 
again in the glory of heaven !” 

“ The Lord’s blessin’ bo about yees, wher- 
ever ye go !” said another, with a choking 
voice, — “ for sure its yerselves that earned no- 
* thin’ else, an’ livin’ or dead as ye may be, while 
there’s one of m alive to offer up a prayer,yees 
’ll have it, from our hearts out. God bless ye, 
childhre ! and make yees all happy in this 
world, an’ the world to come. Ochone ! its 
the black sight to many a one to see yer backs 
turned, an’ the ould walls left bare an’ lonely 
— an’ God he sees that. Sure there’s many a 
creature ’ll miss ye sore, and when they’re 
passin’ tJie home, they’ll be offerin’ up the 
prayer to God for them, that used to have the 
warm fire-side, and the good bit an’ sup for 
them !” 

The protracted parting was at last over, and 
the Burkes, old and young, were fairly embark- 
ed, — the father and mother, grave and sad as 
their tearful gaze rested on the swift- receding 
shores of that land now painfully dear to their 
aching hearts, the young people gradually los- 
ing sight of their sorrow in the novelty of ey. 
ery thing around. The sea, the coast,the li^ j >» 
houses, the steamboat, and the hundreds 


16 


trauge faces it bore along over the waters, had 
all and each the power of weaning their young 
minds from thoughts of sadness, and it was 
only when the violent motion of the boat be- 
gan to sicken them that they could be prevail- 
ed upon to leave the deck, and go below. 

Even the passage of that narrow sea, though 
already effected by steam, was by no means so* 
rapid as it now is, and the Burkes found it of 
all but endless duration,for it chanced that a 
heavy sea was sweeping through the channel, 
and its violent heavings affected all more or 
less. The sight of Liverpool, (dirty, smoky 
town that it is) was a welcome one to them, 
and it was -ndth grateful hearts, and a sense of 
relief that they found themselves again on the 
dry, firm-land, although it was the land of 
England. 

Next day our emigrants embarked for New 
York, on board the good ship Dublin ; and it 
appeared as though they set out under favora- 
ble auspices, for the weather was fair and tol- 
erably mild, and the long swell of the ocean- 
wave was but slightly broken by the breeze. 
Wind and tide were favorable, and the hopes 
of passengers and crew ran high, in anticipa- 
tion of a quick and pleasant voyage. There 

ere, however, two individuals on board who 

oked on the animated scene, without and 


17 


within the vessel, without catching even the 
smallest particle of the invigorating spirit 
which seemed to actuate all around. These 
were Andy Burke and his wife — the former 
of whom seemed w'eighed down by some dark, 
hidden feeling, which wore him away day by 
day ; and the latter by fears, newly-awakened 
« fears, for her husband’s health. To all others, 
he seemed as well as he had ever been ; but 
there was a flush on his wan cheek, and a light 
in his hollow eye, that could not pass the scru- 
tinizing glance of affection ; and poor Biddy 
felt her heart sink within her, as the thought 
for the first time crossed her mind — “ What 
would become of us all, if Andy was taken 
from us ? ” 

For some days she kept her fears to herself, 
dreading lest any expression of them might be 
injurious to her husband ; but at length she 
could contain herself no longer, and ventured 
to ask, “Andy, aAaywr / what’s the matter w’ith 
ye, at all ? Sure ye don’t look like the same 
man since we left Liverpool ! If it’s grievin’ 
ye are for lavin’ home, sure, aroon ! there’s no 
use in frettin’ about what can’t be helped, an’ 
only it was God’s will we would’nt be on the 
$haxtghran this blessed day — so, for that raison, 
we must make the best of it, an’ not murmur, 

for fear God might afflict us more an’ more ! ’’ 

n 


18 


“ Well ! since ye want to know, Biddy, 
ostore / ” returned her husband, “ I’ll just tell 
ye the thruth. Ever since we left home, there’s 
something over me, an’ I dunna what it is — I 
think I’m as well as ever I was, but somehow 
or another there’s like a heavy weight on my 
heart — an’ at times it crushes me so that I’m 
as much dead as alive — whatever’ s the raison 
of it. But, my dear ! I’m always tliinkin’ that 
I’ll never see the other side, an’ sure, God help 
me ! that same would’ nt thi'ouble me much, 
only for you an’ the childhre, poor things ! ” 

“ Tut, tut, man ! ” said his wife, affecting a 
tone of remonstrance, though she found it dif- 
ficult to restrain her tears, on hearing her own 
secret forebodings echoed back from her hus- 
band’s heart. “ Sure, it’s a shame to hear a 
sensible man talkin’ that way ! It’s the black 
grief, I tell you, that’s makin’ you so down- 
hearted, an’ it does’nt become a God-fearin’ 
man to be so easy cast down. With the help 
of God, we’ll both live to see the chidhre well 
settled in Amerikey, an’ then it’s no matther 
how soon we’re taken home, for, God knows, 
there’s no great pleasure to be expected in this 
world. Keep up your heart, then, Andy ! for 
the love o’ God, do ! not to spake o’ myself an’ 
the poor cratures that’s dependin’ on you ! ” 
A sorrowful shake of the head was Andy’s re- 


19 


ply, and aa some of the cliUdren drew near at 
the moment, the subject was dropped for that 
time. 

Alas ! these gloomy presentiments were all 
too soon realized, for Andy visibly declined, 
and day after day saw him grow paler and thin- 
ner, and more dejected. At length he was 
forced to keep his bed, and a hectic fever set 
in which very soon exhausted his remaining 
strength, and left not a shadow of hope for his 
recovery. Even poor Biddy, though she had 
bravely struggled against despair while the 
slightest possibility existed that her husband 
might still be spared, even she was at last 
driven to confess that hope had vanished, and 
in the fullness of her grief she gathered her 
children around her and told them the dread- 
ful tidings. Her voice was broken by choking 
sobs, but her young auditors were not slow in 
catching the fatal import of her words, know- 
ing as they did that their beloved fi^thcr was 
very, very ill. From that moment they nestled 
around his bed with redoubled fondness, each 
vicing with the other who should minister to 
his wants, and anticipate his wishes. Yet they 
had been warned by their mother not to make 
any show of grief ; and it was a touching sight 
to see the self-control which they exercised in. 
consequence. At times, when the cider boys, 


20 


who were respectively thirteen and eleven, 
found it impossible to refrain from tears, thoy 
would steal away from the bedside of their 
dying father, and sitting down side by side in 
some remote corner, they would give free vent 
to their sorrow. The young ones would from 
time to time draw near their mother, with 
stealthy caution, and whisper in her ear, “ I 
think daddy’s betther the day — don’t you sec 
how red his cheeks are ! ” A burst of tears 
was the only answer, for Biddy well knew that 
death was rapidly doing his work, and that the 
glow on the emaciated face was but the flush 
of internal disease. 

It chanced that the ship, though leaving her 
port under auspices so favorable, was much re- 
tarded in her progress by strong w'estem gales, 
so that, though she had no very great storm to 
encounter, yet the voyage was a rough and te- 
dious one. For seven long weeks was she kept 
buffetting about on the wide ocean, wuthoiit 
making any considerable progress, and eight 
weeks had passed since “ the last glimpse of 
Erin ” had disappeared from the eyes of the 
emigrants, when one morning, just as the 
shades of night were vanishing from sky and 
sea, Biddy Burke awoke her younger children 
from their sleep, and made a sign for them to 
rise — she could not speak. Hastily donning 


21 


their little garments, the wondering children 
followed their mother — it was but a few paces 
— to theii- father’s bed, where they found their 
two brothers kneeling, with their faces hid be- 
tween their hands. A scream burst forth from 
the little ones, as they looked at the bed, for 
their father lay still, as though he w’cre dead, 
and the ghastly paleness of his face was fearful 
to see. He was not dead, however, though his 
hour was just then come, and the voice of his 
children woke him from his lethargic slumber. 
“ Kneel down, all of ye ! ” ho said, in a feeble 
voice, “ till I give ye my blessin’ — God help 
ye, poor children, I hav’nt much else to lave 
ye ! ” When the whole sorrowful group knelt 
before him, the mother as well as the children, 
the dying man raised his clasped hands to 
heaven, and breathed an inw'ard prayer that 
the God of tlie widow and the orphan might 
protect them through life, and guide them to 
a happy eternity. Then, stretching out his 
right hand, he made the sign of the cross over 
their heads, murmuring, “ The blessin’ o’ the 
Holy Trinity — Father, Son, an’ Holy Ghost, 
be upon yes all, and may the good and merci- 
ful God bring us all together again, in the 
kingdom of his glory ! An’ now, listen to your 
father, childhren ! for the last time on earth. 
I’m not able to say much, but ye’ll mind what 


22 


I tell ye— I trust in God ye will ! Hush your 
cryin’ an’ sobbin’ now for a little while, for ye 
have time enough for that Avhen I’m gone.” 
There was, in a moment, a profound silence, 
and the dying Christian spoke again, though 
frequently obliged to stop from excessive 
weakness. 

“ You’ll soon land in a strange counthry, 
childhren, where ye’ll have to work your way 
through as best ye can. An’ though its God’s 
will that ye’ll have no father to do for ye, or 
to watch over ye, still He leaves ye, in his 
mercy, a wise an’ a lovin’ mother, and my dy- 
in’ advice is that next to God above, ye’ll love 
an’ honor Aer. Never do any thing without 
her consent, or without consultin’ her, and 
then ye’ll be sure to do well. An’ now I’ll 
give ye the same charge that my own father 
gave to me with his dyin’ lips : — Be faithful to 
God, an’ love an’ obey his holy church, an’ 
never be ashamed of your religion, for if ye do 
God will reject you in this world,an’ the world 
to come ! Now, God’s blessin’ an’ mine be 
about ye all. Biddy astore !” he said after a 
pause, but he spoke so low that she was oblig- 
ed to bend down to catch his words, “ it would 
give me great consolation if I could only re- 
cave the rites o’ the church : — but God sees all 
things, an’ he sees how it grieves me that I 


23 


jan’t have that happiness. But when you get 
to New York, Biddy dear, ye’ll not forget to 
have some masses offered up for me, that God 
may have mercy on my poor soul ! — do’nt cry, 
agra machree ! I see you can’t spake, — but I 
know you’ll do as I say ; there now, put that 
little crucifix in my hand, — that ’ll do, ahagur. 
Christ Jesus have, mercy on me, — mother of 
Jesus, pray for me ! — sweet Lord take me home 
to mj' eternal rest.” There was a dead silence 
for some minutes, — not even the youngest child 
was heard to utter a sound, — many of the pas- 
sengers knelt around, but all were silent ; — 
Biddy bent down over the dying man, and 
held in her breath to listen, but all was still, — 
suddenly one deep, convulsive sigh issued from 
the talf closed lips, — a shiver ran through the 
whole body, so that even the bed-clothes were 
seen to quiver, and then all was over. “ May 
the Lord have mercy on your soul, for now its 
gone before the judgment seat !” cried the poor, 
bereaved wife, as her tears, long suppressed, 
now burst forth, and fell like rain on the pale, 
shrunken face of the dead. Then, as her chil- 
dren echoed her crj”^, and burst into wild la- 
mentations, “ Ay ! we may cry now, childhre, 
dear, for we’ll not disturb him now, — we may 
cry, farear agar! but it’ll do us no good,— it’ll 
not bring back the sowl that’s gone. But what 


24 


am I doin’ at all she said, suddenly falling 
on her knees, “ what am 1 about that I’m not 
prayin’ for him, an’ him before the judge this 
blessed minit. Kneel down, childliren I an’ 
ye, good people all ! an’ let us offer up oar 
prayers for him !” 

Though hor voice was failing at every' word, 
she nevertheless went bravely on, and offered 
up her prayers with fer\'or and devotion, her 
children, and all the sympathising spectators, 
joining in the performance of that sacred duty. 

During the day and night that poor Andy 
Burke was waked, if sympathy could have al- 
le\'iated the sorrow of those whom his death 
made desolate, it surely was not wanting, for 
those who had never seen one of the family 
till they met on board the vessel, were drawn 
to them by so great a calamity', and did all tha^ 
the place and circumstances pennitted to testi- 
fy their deep and heartfelt sympathy. But 
though the poor u-idow was sincerely grateful 
for so much spontaneous kindness, y'et it could 
not draw her from her lethargy of u oe. Hour 
after hour she sat by the bed-head, rocking to 
and fro with that peculiar motion, so expres- 
sive of hopeless grief, only seen, I believe, 
amongst our more humble countrywomen, — 
her clasped hands resting on her knees, and 
her tearless eyes fixed on the rigid features of 


the dead. All the elder children seemed near- 
ly as much afflicted as their mother, but how- 
ever touching was the silent sorrow of the 
group, it was not half so much so as the all but 
unconsciousness of the two youngest, who, 
though somewhat subdued by tho sight of so 
much grief, yet ran about as usual, and ate 
whatever was offered them with just as good a 
relish. At times they would peep in between 
the others, where they sat around the bed, and 
for the moment they would seem sensible that 
their father was indeed dead, but once out of 
sight of that mournful spectacle, the impres- 
sion was speedily effaced. 

That long, melancholy night was at length 
past, and the hour arrived when the mortal re- 
mains of poor Andy Burke were to be commit- 
ted to the deep. Weak and worn as Biddy 
was, she could not be persuaded from helping 
to prepare the corpse for burial. Herself put 
on the shroud prepared for him, but when the 
sailors came to sew up the corpse in its canvas 
coffin, she resigned her place with shrinking 
horror, for the operation appeared an unnatur- 
al one to her. She had previously called her 
children to take their final leave of the dead, 
herself giving the example, by imprinting a 
long, last kiss on the blue, ice-cold lips. This 
sorrowful ceremony over,the De Profundis, and 


26 


the usual prayers were read aloud by a young 
ecclesiastic, who happened to be on board, (on 
his way to be ordained in New York for the 
American mission,) whereupon the body w'as 
carried aloft, the family of the deceased follow- 
ing closely, and after them the greater num- 
ber of the passengers. The mournful proces- 
sion having reached the stern,ropes were thrown 
around the sheeted corpse, in order to lower it 
from the ship’s side,butthe widow' darting for- 
ward, threw herself on her knees beside it, and 
implored them to wait yet a moment. The 
hood of her cloak w'as thrown over her head, 
so that her face could not be distinctly seen, 
but enough was visible to shew that she was 
pale as the corpse itself, and that her eyes were 
swollen with w'eeping, though now dry and 
tearless. “Oh! Andy! Andy !” she mur- 
mured in a low wailing tone, “ its little w'e 
thought when w'e were lavin’ home that this id 
be the way with us ! An’ sure my heart would 
not be half so sore, acushla ! if ye were aburyin’ 
in the ould church yard at home, where 
your forefathers lie, — but och ! wirra, wdrra ! 
to see you a throwin’ out into the deep ocean, 
instead o’ bein’ covered up in consecrated 
ground, — och, its unnatural,*, unnatural ! But 
then,” she added, suddenly recollecting her- 
self, as faith came with its consoling whisper, 


27 


I “ but then, what is the poor body, after all ? 
j an’ sure God can raise ye up at the last day, as 
1 bright and beautiful as* if ye had been sleepin’ 

' in the quiet earth ! Farewell, then, till we 
I meet again, an’ I hope in the mercy o’ God 
I that it ’ill be before his throne, to live in His 
blessed kingdom for ever an’ ever — Amen !” 
This last word of her simple prayer was echo- 
ed from hundreds of hearts, — the children ga- 
thered close around their mother, and the 
corpse was raised aloft, — a wild cry broke from 
the bereaved ones, as it was lowered into the 
deep, — poor Biddy covering her eyes to shut 
out the horrid sight, — one heavy plash was 
heard, the body of poor Andy Burke was far 
down amid the waters, and the vessel was mov- 
ing rapidly on her course. The widow was 
almost carried down the gangway steps, (by 
some whose tearful eyes attested their sincere 
sympathy,) for she was literally more dead 
than alive, being entirely exhausted by long 
w’atching, and heart-wearing affliction. Her 
children followed close behind, helping each 
other along as best they could. 


CHAPTER II. 

POVERTY AND TEMPTATION. 

Twelve months had passed away since Mrs. 
Burke and her children had landed in New 


28 


York — months of trial, and of sorrow, they had 
been ; for the desolate widow had found it hard 
to support her childreri*with her small means, 
and unfriended as she was, she had sought in 
vain for some employment that might enable 
her to keep her trifling funds in reserve. 
Sickness and death, too, had been busy amongst 
her little flock, for her two youngest children 
had one after the other pined away and died, 
and were calmly sleeping in the quiet church- 
yard. Their death was a severe trial for the 
mother’s heart, (as it ever is to lose a belov- 
ed child under any circumstances) but when 
reason and religion, had excited their mild in- 
fluence on her soul, she acknowledged with a 
grateful heart that God had given her a new 
proof of his love, in thus talcing to himself her 
fatherless children, ere yet they had been sub- 
jected to the Are of tribulation, or their pure 
hearts contaminated by the vices of the w'orld. 
J ust about the end of the first year of widowhood 
she obtabied the washing of a few families of 
respectable standing, and through their influ- 
ence, others were induced to give her employ- 
ment. Her two eldest children, being boys, 
could do nothing, it is true, to assist their 
mother in the house, but the two girls,although 
only ten and eight respectively, were so do- 
cile, and so industrious, that they did much to 


lighten her labor. Neat and tidy they were, 
too, and it did their mother’s heart good to 
see how cheerfully and willingly they went 
about their w'ork. After a little time, the eldest 
boy, Peter, obtained a situation as errand-boy 
in a commercial establishment, and his earn- 
ings, trifling Aough they might be, were a sen- 
sible assistance to his mother, to whom they 
were duly and regularly given up. Hitherto 
our old acquaintance, Willy, had been of a re- 
markable cheerful, lively disposition,but about 
this time his mother remarked that he became 
silent andpensive,as though something weighed 
heavily on his young mind. At first she thought 
that this might proceed from the loneliness at- 
tending his brother’s abaence,as they were now’ 
for the first time separated. But when she 
came to talk to him on the subject, he warm- 
ly replied, “No, no,mother dear ! it is’nt that, 
sure. I’m glad an’ proud that Pether has got 
somethin’ to do, bekase its a help to you, and 
it gives himself pleasure to be doin’ somethin’ 
for you an’ ug all — but when I see him cornin’ 
in on Saturday night, an’ putting’ the money 
that he made all week into your hands, an’ 
W’hen I hear you blessin’ him, an’ callin’ him 
a good boy, sure it makes myself sorry that I 
have nothin’ to give you, an’ that in place of 
bein’ a help, like my brother, it’s what I’m a 
burthen to you !’’ 


30 


The mother threw her arms roupd the 
boj^’s neck, and kissed his fair forehead with 
more than usual tenderness, “ an’ sure it’s jist 
like you, "Willy darlin’, to talk that way, for 
God has always marked you with grace, but 
you must’nt let sich thoughts into your head, 
good or bad, bekase your too ^’oung yet to 
do much for any one, an’ in place o’ your go- 
in’ to look for work, poor child ! it’s thinkin’ 
of sendin’ you to school I am. If you had a 
year or two more’s lamin’, then you’d be bet- 
ther able to work your way through the world. 
You can read well enough, I know that, an’ 
thanks be to God for it, but you see you can 
hardly write your name, an’ if I could afford 
it any way at all, I’d like to send you to school. 
Sure they tell me there’s schools here, where 
they teach children for next to nothin’. ” 

Poor Willy said nothing, but he sighed 
heayily, and seeing that the fire was burned 
low on the hearth, he went quietly to work 
to kindle it anew,for one of his mother’s wash- 
ing pots hung from the crook. Mrs. Burke 
wiped away a tear with the corner of her 
apron,for she saw that her fayorite boy was un- 
happ}', and her maternal heart could not but 
sympathise with his sadness,proceeding as it did 
from the purest and best source. She turned 
away in silence to pursue her work, and for 
that lime the matter went no farther. 


31 


Worn and pale she was, poor woman ! and 
at times far from strong, but still she toiled 
on cheerfully, and none might read on her 
placid face one thought of discontent — one 
corroding regret for days of happiness gone 
for ever, days when comfort and plenty were 
in and around her dwelling, and when she had 
the means of dispensing good things to others 
who were not so highly blessed. Every morn- 
ing, her first care was to hear Mass in the 
neighbouring cathedral, after which she com- 
menced her daily toil with cheerful alacrity, 
for she had offered it to God, and did all for 
his sake. As she always went to the earliest 
Mass, so, in winter it was before the dawn, 
and she generally took Willy with her, natur- 
ally disliking to traverse the streets alone at 
an unseasonable or unseemly hour. Thus the 
boy acquired a habit which he found one of 
incalculable profit and consolation amid the 
trials of a strangely- chequered life, when that 
pious mother who thus early led him to the 
foot of the altar had been long mouldering in 
the grave. 

It chanced one day that Willy accompanied 
his mother when she went to the house of one 
of her employers, and the lady being much 
pleased with the boy’s appearance, and his 
quiet, respectful manner when spoken to, ob- 


32 


served that it was a pity so fine a lad should 
not have the advantages of education. 

“ I should like to help you along, Mrs. 
Burke !” she said with a gracious smile, “ for I 
believe you to bo a good, industrious person, 
and therefore, I shall take this boy under my 
own care. He shall be sent to one of the best 
schools in the city, so that he may, if so in- 
clined, make up for lost time, and when he is 
a few years older, he shall be taken into my 
husband’s counting house, as junior clerk, 
where he will have a good salary. What say 
you, Mrs. Burke ?” 

“ What can I say, ma’am ! but that I’m 
entirely obliged to you for makin’ such 
an offer, an’ from my heart out I thank 
you. Only it would’nt become his mo- 
ther to spake so much in his praise. I’d be 
makin’ free to tell you, ma’am, that I hope 
ye’ll find him a good boy, an’ a thankful 
one. With God’s help I’ll get his little things 
ready an’ send him as soon as I can. But 
won’t he come home at night, ma’am, for a 
little time ? Maybe it’s not long I’d be with 
the cratures, an’ I like to have them about me 
while I’m in it !” 

“ Oh certainly, Mrs. Burke ! he can go 
home, if you wish it, every evening, and the 
sooner you can send him it will be all the bet- 


33 


ter. Good morning, yon can go now, for I’m 
rather hurried this morning.” 

The poor woman made a low curtesy and 
retired with her son. All the way home they 
could talk or think of nothing but the blessed 
news they had heard, and tears of joy stream- 
ed from the eyes of the fond mother as she 
painted in glowing language the advantages 
thus opened to her darling son. 

In a few days after, Willy Burke was duly 
sent to school, dressed moreover in an entire 
new suit, and a proud woman his mother was 
when she surveyed him in his handsome ne w 
clothes, before he set out on Monday morning. 
When he came home at night, she felt still 
prouder and happier, for he had several res- 
pectable looking volumes, neatly strapped up, 
and in each of these he was to learn an allot- 
ted lesson. WTien her washing was done,8he has- 
tened to get her sewing and sit down besideWil- 
ly where he was studying his lessons; and she 
was beyond measure gratified to hear the fine 
descriptions of far off lands and seas, and even 
the grammar, though it was all Greek to her, 
was listened to with a gratified ear, for wasn’t 
it all “ fine lamin’ ” for her boy. The les- 
sons were at last learned, and supper being 
over and the rosary said, Willy and his little 

sisters went to bed. But it was long before 

c 


34 


their mother sought that repose which her 
day of toil rendered so necessary, for, over and 
above, the full half-hour which she nightly 
devoted to her prayers, she sat for some time 
on the night in question musing over the 
past and present, and indulging in many a 
bright thought of her children’s future. 

For about a week matters went on thus — 
Willy, after coming from school, went about 
and did all the little jobs that his mother re- 
quired, went her errands for the next day, and 
saw that he had left nothing undone, then ea- 
gerly applied himself to his books, and was 
soon absorbed in the delightful task of con- 
ning over liis lessons. But one evening to- 
wards the end of the week he suddenly stopt 
short in the middle of a phrase, and his mo- 
ther asked in alarm, “ What is the matter r” 
“ Why, mother ! is’nt this odd ?” said the boy 
in reply. 

“ What is it, dear ?” 

“ Jist listen to this, mother !” and he went 
on to read aloud a passage in his next day’s 
lesson of geography, wherein according to the 
custom of modern geographers who write for 
Protestant schools, the religion of Catholics 
was strangely enough brought in, daubed and 
blackened, as incidental to the description of 
Catholic nations. It was of Ireland that Wil- 


35 


ly -was now learning, and the passage in ques- 
tion was to the effect that Ireland was a beau- 
tiful and fertile country, and her people a fine 
intelligent race, but that they were kept in a 
state of gross ignorance by the Romish clergy, 
and'were sunk in the grossest superstition — in- 
dolent they were, too, and slovenly in their 
habits, and all this, together with their miser- 
able poverty, was unhesitatingly ascribed to 
‘ their obstinate attachment to the debasing 
doctrines of popery !’ “ Now is’nt that curi- 

ous, mother ! an’ then they say here in anoth- 
er place that wherever the priests of theChurch 
of Rome have power over the people, it’s just 
the same !” 

The wan face of the widow w'as flushed with 
a crimson glow as she listened,and when Wil- 
ly had ended, she said in a voice that struggled 
to be calm, “ An’ do you know Willy dear ! 
who them priests are that they’re blackenin’ 
that way ? — sure ar’nt they our own priests, 
darlin,’ the fathers o’ the poor an’ the minis- 
thers of God’s holy church ! our own Father 
Illaloney that couldn’t put bit or sup in his 
own mouth an’ know that any body wanted 
it, an’ sure there’s hundreds o’ them like him, 
oh, God’s blessin’ be about them all, for sure, 
bad as the poor cratures in Ireland are,would- 
’nt they be a thousand times worse only for the 


36 


priests, that’s always ready with the good ad- 
vice, an’ the soft word, an’ the help too when 
it’s needed !” And here the poor woman’s 
grateful remembrance of “the priests at home,” 
together with her indignation at hearing them 
so basely calumniated, and not only them but 
the divine religion whose ministers they are, 
all affected her so forcibly that she burst into 
tears. Suddenly a thought struck her, and 
hastily drying her eyes, she asked, 

“A, then, Willy ! w hat kind of a school is it, 
at all ? Sure I often herd of schools that they 
had even in Ireland, just a purpose for leadin’ 
poor Catholic childhren asthray — where they 
used to make them read the Protestant bible, 
and lyin’ books about our holy religion, that 
they call po^iery. Maybe they have them here 
too, an’ that this is one o’ them ? eh, alanna ? 
what do you think ? ” 

“Well! to tell you the thruth, mother! I 
think it’s nothing else ; for we read in the tes- 
tament every day, an’ you see yourself the 
kind of books they give us to learn, an’ then 
there was a tall, black-lookin’ gentleman came 
in yestherday, an’ he questioned us very close- 
ly about what religion we were, an’ when I 
said I was a Cathohe, he shook his head an’ 
said ‘poor boy! poor boy!’ an’ then he 
stroked down my head, and said he’d have 


37 


some talk with me when he’d come again next 
week. The boys said he was a ministher, an’ 
when I asked them ‘ does the priest ever come 
at all ? ’ sure they all burst out laughin’ an’ 
began to make game o’ me, an’ some o’ them 
said, ‘ Catch a priest in here — that’s all ; why, 
the boj's alone would hunt him right off ! ’ So 
when I seen they were all makin’ such fun 
about it, I said nothing, but went on with my 
writing.” 

“ Well, plase God, Willy, you’ll never sot 
a foot in their school again, an’ I’ll take the 
books an’ the other things that you have here 
back to Mrs. Watkins in the momin’. Sure 
they thought we were so ignorant that we 
frould not know nor care anything about reli- 
gion, but they’ll find their mistake, or my 
name’s not Biddy Burke. Oh then, ar’nt they 
the sly villains, out an’ out — here they’d be 
makin’ us b’lieve that they were givin’ you a 
good edication, an’ them all the time doin’ 
their best to rob you of what’s more precious 
than silver or goold, or all the lamin’ in the 
world — the blessed an’ holy faith that you got 
from your father, an’ him from his ; — may they 
all rest in heaven, I pray God, this night.” 

To this Willy made no opposition, for the 
boy had, as I have elsewhere observed, an un- 
derstanding above his age,and young as he was, 


38 


he was fully aware that the gift of faith is in- 
deed a priceless blessing ; so, seeing that his 
mother believed his in danger from the one- 
sided teachings of the school, he cheerfully re- 
signed himself to her will, and though he sigh- 
ed to have the golden vista of knowledge clos- 
ed, ere yet he had done more than glanced 
through the portals, yet the sacrifice w’as made 
without a murmur. His mother understood 
his feelings, and drawing him towards her she 
fondly kissed his cheek. “ Sure, I know it 
grieves you darlin' to be taken away from 
school, jist when you w'ore beginnin’ to do 
some good, but God is merciful, Willy, an’ 
depend upon it, w'hen he knows an’ sees that 
you don’t murmur against His holy wnll. He’ll 
open some other way for you. Maybe Mrs. 
Watkins did’nt know what kind of a school it 
was, an’ that she’ll send you to another where 
there’ll be no such doins.” This idea was 
consoling to both, and when in the morning 
Mrs. Burke set out with her bundle of books, 
she was not withont a hope that she would 
have good news for Willy on her return. 

When introduced to Mrs. Watkins’s pre- 
sence, she found that lady half-reclined on a 
velvet-covered couch in her luxuriously fur- 
nished drawing-room, with her fine person at- 
tired in a travelling dress, she being about to 


39 


set out on a party of pleasure to the country 
sc.at of one of her friends. At a neighboring 
window stood her husband, also equipped for 
the road, and apparently looking anxiously 
out for the appearance of the servant with the 
horses. 

“ Why, Mrs. Burke, what have you got 
there ?” demanded the lady, as she raised her- 
self languidly from her recumbent postui-e. — 
“Is not that a lot of books I see you carry ?” 

“ YLs, ma’am,” replied Mrs. Burke, “they're 
the books you were so good as to give Willy 
when he was goin’ to school.” 

“Well, and is he not using them now? — 
surely he requires them still ? ” 

“He’s not goin’ back to that school any 
more, ma’am,” was the quiet answer. 

“ Xot going back to school !” exclaimed Mrs. 
Watkins, in surprise, “do you mean to say, 
good woman, that you do not choose to send 
him?” 

“ I can’t send him there, ma’am, an’ I’ll tell 
you the reason if you’ll plase to listen for one 
minnit.” 

“ Well, I declare,” said the lady, “ this im- 
pudence is beyond every thing. It is true, I 
had often heard that you Irish are too lazy 
and indolent to apply yourselves to learn any- 
thing, and that the trouble of keeping your 


40 


children in proper order for going' to school 
was more than enough for you — so I find it is 
jest the same with you all.” 

“ I beg your pardon, ma’am,” said the poor 
woman, trying to keep in her tear<, “ it wasn’t 
the throublo, at all, for, God knows, I’d be 
glad to sit up all night, afther my day’s work, 
if I had no other way to keep his little things 
clean an’ nate on him for goin’ to school, an’ 
indeed it ,w^as the joy o’ the world to me an’ 
him, poor fellow ! for him to get so good a 
chance, — but s\ire, ma’am, it isn’t a school for 
Catholics at all ; an’ I jist came here this 
momin’ to let you know the kind of a place 
it is, an’ the sort of books they had my little 
boy lamin’.” 

” The books I bought for him myself, good 
woman, and the school is an excellent one, 
wherein boys receive a good religious educa- 
tion.” 

“ "VVell, ma’am, but it’s not our religion they 
teach* an’ though the school may be a very 
good one for Protestants — no Catholic boy can 
stay in it, except his people wants to have him 
reared up a Protestant.” 

“Mr. "Watkins,” cried his wife, “I pray 
you come here — only fancy this poor woman, 
whose son I told you I had sent to school — 
why, here he has been but a w’eek in attend- 


41 


ance, and she comes to tell me that she cannot 
send him there any more — because, forsooth ! 
it is a Protestant school. Did you ever hear 
of such a silly woman ?” 

Now, it happened that worthy Mr. Watkins 
prided himself no little on his thorough appre- 
ciation of the benefits which the Reformation 
had conferred on the world, and a eorrespond- 
ing detestation of Popish fraud and supersti- 
tion, and what not, and ho had cheerfully 
consented that his \^dfe should take charge of 
this Irish boy, with a view to his conversion 
from the errors of Popery. On this point, 
then, he was peculiarly sensitive, and an an- 
gry glow was on his sallow cheek as he ap- 
proached the offending party. 

“ Are you not aware, woman,” he said, in a 
magisterial tone, “ that your boy will have a ' 
much better chance for succeeding in the 
world, by early embracing the enlightened 
views and doctrines of Protestantism ? I can 

assure you, my worthy Mrs. Burke, eh ? 

(the widow curtsied in silence) that Popery is 
not the thing for this age or country, and if 
you wish your son to prosper in the world, you 
will rather urge him to pass into the brighter 
days of Gospel truth.” 

“ Well, sir, ” said Mrs. Burke, modestl)% 
yet finnly, “ it may be all true what you say, 


42 


out all his forebearers, since tne days of St. 
Patrick, have lived an’ died Catholics, an’ so 
will he with God’s help. I’m a poor ignorant 
woman, sir, as regards the lamin’ of this world 
— but in the matther of religion I know my 
duty to myself an’ my childhren, an’ with 
God’s help I’ll do it ; for, let us be poor or 
rich in this world, it’ll be all the same at the 
hour of death, an’ we’ll never be so foolish as 
to give up our religion for sake of the poor 
perishable things o’ this wicked world.” 

“ Yes, but poor, misguided creature,” went 
on Mr. Watkins, “ how do you know that your 
religion is right, alter all ? confessedly unlearn- 
ed as you are, and, I suppose, totally unac- 
quainted with the Holy Scripture, how can 
you tell whether you are in the way of salva- 
tion or not?” 

“ Why, sir, I believe what the Church pro- 
poses to me, an’ I’m sure there’s no other safe 
guide on earth. Christ himse^ is with her all 
days, an’ will be till the end — an’ so she can’t 
be wrong.” 

“Well, well,” said Mr. Watkins, peevishly, 
“ I see the priests teach their dupes some little 
Scripture, just what it suits them to bring 
forward ; but this is mere loss of time. Settle 
with this pious woman Mrs. Watkins (and he 
laid a sneering emphasis on the adjective); for 


43 


since she cannot conscientiously allow her son 
to take lessons from a Protestant teacher, or 
to study Protestant books, it were cruel to in- 
sist on her continuing to receive Protestant 
money. Get rid of her at once.” 

“ Certainly, my dear, since you wish, it,” was 
Mrs. Watkins’ dutiful reply ; and so poor Mrs. 
B arke w'as paid off, and informed that her ser- 
vices were no longer required. 

“ An’ about the clothes, ma’m, that you 
kindly gave WiUy — I suppose he’s not to have 
them now r” This was said as Mrs. Birrko 
was about to leave the room. 

“You can keep them for a few days, as you 
may probably think better of this matter — if 
so, I shall be glad to employ you again, and 
will do all I promised for your son.” 

“ Many thanks, ma’am, for all your goodness, 
but ^\’ith God’s help my mind can never 
change about that school, so I’ll bring home 
the things in the mornin’, as you might be 
wantin’ them for some other boy that you’d 
wish to send to school the same way.” There 
was a slight, an almost imperceptible tincture 
of irony in the last words, of which the speak- 
er herself was scarcely aware, but it gave no 
small offence to her two hearers, who, when 
she was gone, launched out into a bitter invec- 
tive against Irish papists, which lasted till their 
horses were announced. 


44 


“Well, mother,” said Willy, as his mother 
entered their poor but neat dwelling, “ what 
did the lady say r” 

“ Indeed, Willy dear, she said and done 
what I did’nt expect from her — poor, simple 
woman that I was, sure I thought she would’nt 
be angry with us for bein’ thrue to our own 
religion, but, God help me, I knew little about 
it — not only herself, but Mr. Watkins himself 
thried to hoodwink me into lettin’ you go to 
the school ; an’ then when they found it 
would’nt do, they paid me off an’ said I was’nt 
to have any more work there ; an’ that’s not 
all, Willy, ” she added, taking off her bonnet 
and sittingdown by the fire — “for I’m to take 
back the clothes, unless you go to their school 
again.” 

“Well, then, mother, they can have them 
this very minnit,” said the high-spirited boy, 
“ for, now that we know what they’re about, 
an’ that it’s thryin’ to make me a turncoat 
they arc, I wouldn’t wear their clothes. So, 
don’t fret about that, mother dear ! for I’d 
sooner go in rags than keep them, when that’s 
the way. But what throubles me is, that you 
have lost a good friend through my means ; 
for Mrs. Watkins always paid you well ! ” 
And the tears, which his own disappointment 
could not draw forth, now burst from his eyes, 


45 


as he thought of his mother’s loss ; a loss so 
very serious in its probable consequences. 

“Never mind, Willy, never mind!” was 
the widow’s pious answer, “ God is more pow- 
erful than all the world, an’ if it be His holy 
will, he can an’ will make up this loss ; an’ if 
He does’nt, why blessed be His holy name, 
we’ll not murmur, for we could’nt do other- 
wise than we did,, unless we wanted to sell 
ourselves for the poor palthry comforts o’ this 
world.” 

In the evening, when Peter came home, as 
ho always did on Saturday night, he gave his 
little savings, as usual, to his mother ; and 
taking his place by the clean, cheerful-looking 
hearth, he looked around for Willy. “ Why, 
what in the world’s the matter with you, WU- 
ly ? ” he said, seeing that his brother looked 
unusually dejected, “ why, man, your face is 
as long as my arm ! ” 

“ Indeed, Pether ! ” said his mother, “ there’s 
enough to make him look sorrowful ; though 
if he’d take my advice, he’d put his little grief s 
in the hands o’ the merciful God, an’ then 
they’d throuble him no more.” She then pro- 
ceeded to relate how they had found out the 
true purpose for which Willy had been sent to 
school — her visit of the morning to Mrs. Wat- 
kins, and its result. Winding up with an ear - 


46 


nest effusion of gratitude for that she had dis- 
covered the snare ere yet it was too late. 

Great was her surprise, and greater still her 
sorrow, when Peter exclaimed, bursting into a 
loud laugh, “ God give ye both more sense, — 
that's all I say ! ” 

“ Why, Pether ! ” cried his mother, with a 
wild look of astonishment, “what do you 
mane, at all ? ” 

“ I just mane this, mother ! ” returned the 
boy, in a bold, confident tone, “ that I only 
wish such a chance had been thrown in my 
way, an’ you’d see how soon I’d jump at it.” 

“ God forbid, Pether, dear ! ’’ said the poor 
woman, with affecting solemnity, while the 
tears coursed down her withered cheek, “ God 
forbid, acushla machree! for that ’id be jumpin’ 
into the middle o’ danger — it ’id be nothin’ 
else but temptin’ the Lord ! ” 

“ Danger ! ” repeated Peter, contemptuous- 
ly, “ danger, indeed ! don’t you think, mother', 
that I could stick to my o^vn religion, if all the 
Protestants in New York were hammerin’ their 
lies into my head — ay ! to be sure, could I, an' 
as I said, if I had Willy’s chance, I wouldn’t 
be the fool to throw it over my shoulder, as he 
did ! ” 

His brother was about to reply, his cheek 
glowing ■with honest indignation, -vhen one of 


47 


the little girls called out, “Husht all o’ ye ! 
there’s some stranger cornin’ up the stairs ! ” 
Here the woman of the house (from whom 
Mrs. Burke rented her two rooms) was heard 
calling out from the bottom of the stairs — 
“ Open the door, Mrs. Burke ! here’s a lady 
to see you ! ” 

Hastening to the door, with the candle in 
her hand, Biddy was just in time to receive 
Mrs. Watkins. “You see I have found you 
out ! ’’ said the lady, unceremoniously entering 
the room, and smiling at the widow’s look of 
astonishment. “ The truth is, I cannot give 
Willy up so easily, and I have come here on 
purpose (though scarcely an hour returned 
from the coimtry) to try and prevail on you to 
send him to me on Monday morning. What 
say you, Willy ? ” she added, going over and 
stroking down his fair hair. 

“ Whatever my mother thinks right for me 
to do, ma’am ! ” said Willy, standing up, and 
making a respectful bow, “ she knows best ! ” 
“ Well, Mrs. Burke ! how is it to be ? Re- 
member all I promised to do for your son, and 
do not lightly cast away his good fortime. I 
have no children of my own, and there is no 
saying what he may come to, should we find 
him trustworthy and obedient ! ” 

“ I allow, ma’m, that your offer is a good 


48 


one,” said the widow, in a firm tone, “but let 
the temptation be ever so great, I’m not at lib- 
erty to accept it. Except you could promise 
to bring him up in the holy Catholic Church, 
an’ that’s what you couldn’t do, I know well. 
■\\Tien everything about him ’id be Protestant, 
an’ him always listenin’ to sich talk about our 
religion as I hard myself this mornin’ ! Oh, 
no, ma’am dear, don’t ask me ! I’m -willin’ to 
slave and toil for my child ; an’ I can bear to 
see him poor an’ naked, too ; if that’s the -will 
of God ; but it ’id break my heart to see him 
in danger of forgettin’ his religion. But sure 
I’m thankful to you, ma’am ! God kno-ws I am, 
for all your good intentions with regard to 
Willy, an’ I’m heart sorry you took the 
throuble of cornin’ here the night to this poor 
place, an’ all alone, too ! ” 

“ Oh ! that is of no consequence,” said Mrs. 
Watkins, evasively ; for she chose to suppress 
the fact that her husband was waiting in the 
carriage at the door. Neither did it serve her 
purpose to acknowledge that both had been 
induced to take this step by the report receiv- 
ed a day or two before from the schoolmaster, 
that Willy Burke was no common boy, and de- 
served a far better fate than being suffered to 
remain in the darkness of Popery. 

“But what a fine family you have, Mrs. 


49 


Burke,” said the lady, looking around, and 
her eye rested on Peter. “ Is this youth ano- 
ther son of yours?” 

“ That’s my eldest son, ma’am,” replied the 
mother, and her voice trembled as she spoke. 
“ He’s been earnin’ somethin’ for us this time 
back.” 

Whether it was that the lady saw some- 
thing in the boy’s look that gave her better 
hopes of him, or whether she merely spoke at 
random, she addi-esscd him in a gracious man- 
ner — “"What do you think, my boy, of this de- 
cision of your mother ?” 

“list this, ma’am, that if the offer were 
made to me, instead of Willy, I would’nt be 
the fool to refuse it.” 

“ In that case you shall have the same offer, 
for I see you know how to appreciate an ad- 
vantage. Will you embrace the proposal that 
your brother has rejected ?” 

“That will ], ma’am, mth a heart and a 
half, let who will say no.” 

“ Oh, Pether, Pether !” cried his mother, 
with a passionate burst of tears, “ don’t say 
that, achorra ! or you’ll break your mother’s 
heart, bekase your JLst goin’ headlong into 
timptation.” 

“ I don’t care, mother, — I’m old enough an’ 

wise enough to take care o’ myself, an’ you’ll 

D 


50 


% 

see I can keep to my religion as well as your- 
self or Willy either, for all that I’ll be catchin’ 
the lamin’ when I can get it.” 

“Well, then, on Monday I’ll expect you,” 
said Mrs. Watkins, “ and I hope, Peter, you 
will not listen to any thing your mother c in say 
against your coming, for, though she is a good, 
wcU-meaning woman, she has no knowledge 
of the world.” 

“Never fear, ma’am,” was Peter’s reply, — 
“ if I’m livin’ you’ll see me early a Monday 
mornin’.” 

So with a cold “ Good-night, Mrs. Bm'ke : I 
hope you’ll soon come to a better understand- 
ing,” good Mrs. Watkins retired, little caring 
for the heavy load of misery she had cast on 
the already afflicted widow, and heedless of 
the fearful seeds of dissension so recklessly 
sown in that hitherto united and affectionate 
family. 

CHAPTER III. 

HONESTY THE BEST POLICY.- 
On Monday morning, according to promise, 
Peter Burke repaired to the house of Mrs. 
Watkins, and as his clothes were in tolerably 
good condition he was sent off at once to school 
loaded with his brother’s rejected books. — 
'The boy’s heart was naturally good, though 


51 


even then less or more tainted by the compa- 
nionship of the ungodly ■with "whom he had 
been brought into contact. He was deeply 
touched by the sight of his mother’s tears, 
when she saw him leave home on what she 
deemed a perilous errand, and the rising de- 
mon of ambition within his soul had to fight a 
hard battle for his prey. 

“ God’s blessin’ be about you, Pether,” said 
his mother, in a choking voice — “ An’ I’m in 
dread, poor fellow, that your’e puttin’ yourself 
in the way of losin’ it altogether, for it’s a bad 
beginnin’ for man or woman to slight the ad- 
vice of their parents. An’ another thing, 
it’s a bad sign to see any one so proud out o’ 
their o-wn strength. But I see there’s no use 
talkin’ to you, poor foolish boy, — so I can only 
pray that God may save you from the danger 
that you’re plungin’ yourself into.” 

“Do, then, mother dear, pray to God for 
me, though I’m sure there’s no such danger as 
you think, for I hope I’m too steadfast in my 
religion to let any thing draw me away from 
it. But it grieves me sorely, mother, that I’ll 
not be earnin’ any thing for you now, an’ you 
wantin’ it so badly — indeed, it does, mother, 
an’ only I’m in hopes that I’ll soon be able to 
do betther for j'ou, I would’nt go at all, that’s 
as thrue as I’m standin’ here.” 


52 


' “ Oh ! as to that Pether,” replied his mo- 
ther, still weeping bitterly, “ it does’nt cost 
me a thought — for sure God is a rich provider, 
an’ He’ll send me an’ mine enough to live on. 
An’ who knows . but you’ll be turned again 
them people and their temptations, the same 
as Willy was — so I’ll not fret so much about it 
till I see.” This new ray of hope dried up the 
Widow’s tears, and gave her a degree of 
strength and courage in the presence of this 
new affliction. 

“ Mother, do you know what I’m thinkin’ ?” 
said Willy, a little while after his brother’s 
departure. 

“No then, alamia, what is it?” 

“Why, do’nt you think it ’id be a good 
thing if I was to go an’ spake to Mr. Miller, — 
who knows but as Pother’s gone, he’d give 
me his place, an’ then you’d be as well off as 
ever.” 

“ Sure enough, child, it’s a good thought,” 
said his mother, “but somehow or another I’m 
afeard to thrust you in it, for only Pether got 
into bad company in the same place he’d ne- 
ver be so headstrong in his own opinion, or go 
against his mother’s biddin’.” 

Willy’s countenance feU— the light of hope 
which had for a moment illumined it, was 
quickly gone, but still he thought not of op- 


posing his mother’s declared opinion. “Well, 
mother, you know best, but if it was pleasin’ 
to you, I’d be glad to be doin’ something.” 

“ I know that, Willy dear, — I know it very 
well, but let us pray to God that somethin’ 
may turn up that you can go to without any 
danger. Pray, my son, — an’ we’ll all pray — an’ 
let us not forget poor Pother in our prayers.” 

And Willy did wait patiently and submis- 
sively, and that evening when his mother’s 
work was done, the little family knelt together 
in the presence of God, and invoked his bless- 
ing and protection for themselves and all dear 
to them. They waited up long after their 
usual hour of retiring to rest, in hopes of Pe- 
ter’s return, but Peter did not appear, and at 
last the poor, anxious mother threw herself on 
her humble bed, to weep and pray rather than 
to sleep. 

In the afternoon of the next day Willy 
strolled out into the street, and becoming in- 
sensibly diverted from his melancholy by the 
incessant stream of life pouring on around him 
— he wandered on, admiring the endless va- 
riety of objects which every where met his 
view, without being at all conscious that the 
day was already on the decline. His attention 
was first called to the lateness of the hour by 
the rapidly increasing gloom, and fearful that 


his mother might have been wanting liim dur- 
ing his long absence he was hurrying home, 
not mthout having to make frequent inquiries 
as to the direction he should take, for he had 
gone far out of his own latitude, when passing 
through a narrow and dimly -lighted street his 
foot struck against something hard, and stoop- 
ing to see what it was, he picked up a cartridge 
or small roll of gold pieces. For a moment 
his heart was filled u ith joy and exultation as 
he fancied all this wealth his own, and he 
handing it to his mother — his poor, toiling mo- 
ther. Eagerly and closely he grasped his trea- 
sure, and drawing his little cloth cap tightly 
down over his brow, for the evening M^as raw 
and cold, he hurried on with the elastic step 
of hope and joy. Ala« ! ere yet he had reach- 
ed his home — even wliile within a few feet of 
the door — the buoyant step was suddenly ar- 
rested, and the tide of joy rolled back from 
his heart, as he remembered — “ This money Ls 
not mine — some one has dropped it, an’ is, 
maybe, lookin’ for it with a sorrowful heart. 
Well, at any rate, I’ll give it to my mother, 
an’ she’ll do whatever’s best to be done. 

“ Thank God ! ” cried Mrs. Burke as her 
son reached the top of the stairs and throwing 
open the door, entered the little room where 
she was preparing their homely supper. “Sure, 


55 


I was frightened about you Willy, not knowing 
what had become o’ you.” 

“ Look here, mother,” said the boy, and he 
held out on his open palm the glittering con- 
tents of the little package. "Look what I 
found.” 

" Arrah, then, Willy dear, where in the 
world did you find sich a power o’ money ? — 
one ’id think you had been wi’ the fairies. Lord 
save us.” 

" Not a fairy or fairies, mother, for I jist found 
it Ijdn’ rolled up tight, in some dark, narrow 
street as I came along home, an’ I was so up- 
lifted that I scarcely felt the ground under me 
as I came along. But then, jist outside there, 
I began to think that it was no great chance 
afther all for that we could’nt keep it.” And 
the poor fellow sat down by the fire udth a 
heavy sigh. 

“ That’s my own bouchal ban, now,” said his 
mother, as she wiped away the tears of joy 
which filled her eyes. “ I’d rather hear you 
say them words, Willy, than if the whole mo- 
ney was our own, honestly earned — God sees 
I would.” 

“ An’ what will we do with the money, mo- 
ther?” Willj' asked. “Sure we do’nt know 
where to find the owner of it ?” 

“ But I’ll take it to the priest in the mornin” 


56 


plase God,” replied his mother — “ an’ he’ll ad- 
vise us what to do, or maybe he might know 
who lost it — at any rate, he’ll give it out in the 
church.” 

Now it happened that at the very time when 
the widow Burke spoke so decidedly of giving 
up the money to the priest, she had scarcely 
wherewith to buy provisions for the next day. 
Nevertheless, no thought of taking even one 
piece of the gold, ever came into her mind, or 
if such an idea ever presented itself, it was 
banished with horror and contempt, as a foul 
suggestion of the Evil one. 

On the following morning, Mrs. Burke went 
to chru-ch at her usual hour, and w'hen Mass 
was over she followed the priest into the ves- 
try-room. Withdrawing modestly into a cor- 
ner she waited till he had taken off his vest- 
ments, and was preparing to leave the room* 
when stepping forward she dropped a low 
curtsey and asked would his reverence be kind 
enough to wait one minnit, while she spoke a 
few words. The priest was an old man, of a 
mild, benignant countenance, and tall, spare 
form. His hair was, if not perfectly white, at 
least of a silvery hue, and the deep furrows 
which indented his high forehead told that his 
years had been many, and perhaps his sorrows, 
too. His eyes, though deeply sunk beneath 


57 


his brows, had notliing stem in their look, yet 
their glance was at times so keen as to make 
one feel that they could pierce the heart and 
read what was passing there. 

“ Certainly, my good woman, certainly,” he 
said, in reply to Mrs. Burke’s request — “ what 
have you got to tell me r” 

“ It’s about some money, sir, that a little 
boy of mine found yistherday evenin’ — an’ as 
we don’t know what to do to find the owner, I 
thought it was best to bring it to your rever- 
ence.” And so saying she held out the little 
roll to the priest. 

The latter merely glanced at the money, and 
then slowly raising his eyes to the face of her 
who presented it, he saw that sorrow and care, 
ay, and poverty, had worn away a fair and 
cornel jfc countenance. He looked from the old 
straw bonnet which covered her head, to the 
thin, thread-bare shawl so closely gathered 
around her meagre form, and then to the old 
shoes on her feet, and he saw that all was 
scrupulously clean, but nevertheless expressive 
of extreme poverty. He stretched out his hand 
and took the cartridge — “Is it silver, or what?” 
he asked. 

“It’sgoold, your reverence! for the boy 
opened it to see what it was !” 

“ And you seem, my poor Avoman !” said the 


68 


priest in a faltering voice, “ as though a little 
money, silver or gold, would be very accepta- 
ble?” 

A slight flush mounted to poor Biddy’s cheek 
as she replied, with doivncast eyes, “ Why, sir» 
there’s many better oflf than I am, an’ some 
worse, but sure whatever way I’m in, me an’ 
mine, its the will o’ God, an’ ivelcome be it, 
for ever aiid ever.” 

More and more interested, the priest went 
on to inquire into her actual circumstances,and 
gradually drew from her a confession that three 
children were altogether depending on her 
daily labor, while her health was rapidly on 
the decline, though, as she said, she strove to 
conceal it from them. 

“Well! my poor child!” said the good 
priest, and the tear of pity trickled unheeded 
down his cheek, “I will not say that you have 
done any thing but your duly in giving up this 
money, for no Christian, at least worthy of the 
name, could have appropriated all or any of it 
to his or her o^vn use without sinning grievous- 
ly against the law of God, yet I will own that, 
situated as you are, it must have been a sore 
temptation to you.” 

“ Why then it wasn’t, your reverence,” said 
the widow', w'ith the touching simplicity of 
truth, “ for though I’d be thankful to the good 


59 


God if he’d be plaaed to give me or my chil- 
dren a means of earnin’ that we could depend 
on, 3'^et somehow or another, I wasn’t much 
tempted to keep this money, thanks be to God 
for that, for I’m a poor frail woman, an’ I 
mightn’t have been able to overcome the temp- 
tation.” 

“ Why, this unlearned, simple woman,”said 
the priest to himself, “ is a pattern of true and 
unassuming piety!” Aloud he said, “And 
what is your name, my good woman ?” 

“My married name is Burke, plase j'our 
reverence, Biddy Burke.” 

The name seemed to st^e familiarly on the 
ear of the listener. “ Burke, Burke,” he re- 
peated two or three times, as though endeavor- 
ing to connect some detached remembrances, 
“ and from what part of Ireland do you come?” 

“ From the county Tipperary, sir, an’ the 
parish of Kilbeggan, if your reverence ever 
hard of sich a place.” 

The priest, instead of replying, took out his 
memorandum-book, and after turning over its 
leaves for a few seconds, he paused and glanced 
his eye over a certain page, “ and your hus- 
band’s name — his Christian name — was An- 
drew, or Andy, was it not ? 

“Why then it was, sir !” said Biddy, now 
thoroughly awakened to curiosity. “Andy 


60 


Burke was his name, sir ; an’ thanks be to 
the Great God, I’m neither afraid nor ashamed 
to own it, — may his sowl rest in pace, for its 
himself was the good husband all out ! But, 
sir, how did you know his name, if I’m not 
makin’ too free in askin’ ?” 

Unheeding her last words, the priest raised ' 
his swimming eyes to heaven, “ Merciful God!” 
he exclaimed with fervor, “ how mysterious 
are thy w'ays, — by what devious paths dost 
thou sometimes conduct us thy children to the 
fulfilment of our destiny ! My good Mrs. 
Burke,” he then said, “what I am now going 
to toll you may w^ell justify your pious confi- 
dence in God. Kn?w then that for months 
past I have been even anxiously inquiring af- 
ter you and your family. An old and dear 
friend in Ireland having written to me that he 
had casually heard of your good husband’s 
death, and feared that you might, therefore,be 
in necessitous circumstances. Now take note 
of the wondrous mercy of our God, — here has 
He throwm this money in your son’s way, and 
inspired you with the just and holy purpose of 
giving it up to me, in order that I might en- 
deavor to find its owner, — and all this, that I 
might discover the object of my search, and 
you obtain a friend, — “ truly hath it been said, 
virhte bringeth its oxen reward ” — he added* 
as though to himself. 


61 


“ An’ sure I always knew it,” said Biddy, 
almost exultingly, “ the Lord never fails to 
raise up friends for them that puts their thrust 
in Him, an’ does what they ean to obey him. 
But will your reverence be good enough to tell 
me who it was that wrote to you about us ?” 

“ It was my old college-friend, and your for- 
mer pastor, the Rev. Mr. Malony !” 

“ Ah ! the Lord’s blossm’ be about Him now 
an’ for ever more !” cried the -widow, clasping 
her hands fervenlly together, “I might a’ 
known it was himself, an’ it raises my heart to 
hear that he doesn’t forget us, though we’re so 
far away. But sure he said he’d remember us, 
an’ it seems he does. But I’m kecpin’ your 
reverence standln’ too long, an’ so I' 11 not tres- 
pass any longer now.” 

***** 

“ Well, mother, what nows ?” was Willy’s 
earnest inquiry as his mother entered the room 
on her return. 

“ Just the ould story over again, my son ! 
that ” Honesty’s the best policy !” Sure I al- 
ways said that God ’id do for us, an’ glory be 
to his holy name, he has raised up a friend for 
us already.” 

“ Why, what in the world has happened to 
you, mother, for it’s long since I seen you look- 
in’ so joyful.” 


62 


“ An’ well I may, Willy dear, for sure when 
I Avent to give that money (an’ it was the luc- 
ky money all out) to the priest, he began to 
question me,an’when he found out who I was, 
he was mighty glad entirely, for it seems that 
poor Father Maloney, God’s blessin’ be about 
him ! is an ould friend of his, an’ wrote to him 
about us, as soon as he hard of your poor fa- 
ther’s death ; so his rOA^rence Avas ever since 
Avishin’ to find us out, but could’nt hear any 
^ thing of us till the Lord put it in my head to 
go with the money.” 

On hearing Father Maloney’s name men- 
tioned, the two little girls cried out Avith great 
joy, “ Och, then, mother, dear, did his rever- 
ence write about tis ?” While Willy pulled 
out his little cotton handkerchief, and Aviped 
the tears from his eyes ; tears of joy they were, 
and such as the poor boy had never shed be- 
fore. 

An’ you tell me he didn’t forget us, mother, 
an’ that he wrote to put in the good word for 
us ; well, that’s the best news I hard this many 
a day, an’ I’d rather hear it than if some body 
gave us a thousand pounds !” but sure he said 
he’d keep us all in mind ; an’ mother is that 
all ?’' 

“ No, dear, it is not all,” replied his mother, 
“ for the priest said he’d come an’ see us, an’ 


63 


sure that same >vill be a great comfort to us, 
even if he can do nothing to help us, for it does 
a body good, let their trouble be what it may, 
to see the priest crossin’ their door ; one is 
never so lonesome when they see them, for 
they know then that they’re not without a 
friend. But I’ll tell you, Willy dear, what I 
want you to do ; I’m gettin’ very uneasy about 
Pether, an’ if ye’d jist run down to Mrs. Wat- 
kins in the evenin’ when you think he’s home 
from school — an’ that’s the school that I have 
neither love nor likin’ for — an’ tell him I’d 
wish he’d come over the night if he can at all. 
I want to spake to him about goin’ to his duty.” 

When evening was come, Willy went on his 
errand, being himself anxious to see his bro- 
ther. On arriving at Mrs. Watkins’s house he 
found his brother proudly exhibiting his copy- 
book to the lady, having been called into the 
parlor for that purpose. Mr. Watkins was 
seated in a high-backed chair near the fire,and 
had raised his head from a book which he had 
been reading, in order to bestow his meed of 
praise on Peter’s progress. Just at this mo- 
ment, Willy was shewn in, by Mrs. Watkins’s 
orders, but he advanced no farther than just 
within the door, and stood with his cap in his 
hand modestly waiting for some one to speak. 

“Peter, there is your brother,” said the la- 


64 


dy, and when the lad turned quickly round, 
poor Willy could scarcely believe that it was 
his brother, so much handsomer did he look in 
his new and fine clothes. The brothers mere- 
ly exchanged glances, for Mrs. Watkiiis just 
then spoke. 

“ I have had you come in here, Willy, that 
you might see how well your brother gets on 
with his writing. We have been just admiring 
the great improvement alread)"^ visible. Indeed 
if he goes on as he has begun, he will be able 
in a very few months to go into the counting- 
house. And then see how well he is looking, 
you would scarcely know him, I believe.” 

“ Indeed, ma‘am,” said Willy, “ he’s not the 
same boy at all ; I’m sure yo\i have done your 
own share for him, any how.” 

” Yes, and I would willingly have done as 
much for you, had you not chosen to act the 
fool.” 

“I only obeyed my mother, ma’am,” return- 
ed AVilly firmly, though respectfully, “ an’ 
I’m sure that’s what I was bound to do.” 

“ I do not know as to that,” said Mrs. Wat- 
kins, in a dogmatical tone, “ there are limits 
even to our filial submission, and seeing that 
your mothers opposition was purely the ef- 
fect of her bigotry and extreme ignorance, I 
think, and so must all rational people, that you 
did wrong in obeying her.” 


65 


To this Willy listened without attempting 
any reply, for he had sense enough to know 
that it did not become one of his age and sta- 
tion to bandy words with the lady, but when 
he saw that she had come to a pause, he ventur- 
ed to say to his brother, “ Pether ! my mother 
wonders very much that you’re not cornin’ 
home at all these days, an’ sent me to tell you 
that she’d be glad if you could get lea\e to 
come over either the night or the morrow night, 
if its only for an hour or two.” 

“ Well, if Mrs. Watkins will be good enough 
to let me. I’ll go back with you now, Willy, 
an’ indeed, only I was so busy ever since I 
came here, I wouldn’t have been without goin’ 
to s(Je my mother.” 

To Willy it was very plain that this propo- 
sal was by no means pleasing to Mrs. Watkins, 
between whom and her husband he saw a sig- 
nificant look exchanged, notwithstanding that 
the gentleman had apparently resumed his 
study of the book before him. “ Well, really, 
Peter,” said the lady in her bland, soft accents, 
“ I know not how you can go this evening, or 
even to-morrow evening, — you have such long 
lessons to prepare, that they occupy, or should 
occupy, your whole evening. Has your mo- 
ther any particular object in sending for him, 
Willy ? for if not I fear she must excuse him 

£ 


66 


for some days longer. He is surely not a child 
that she should fear to have him out of her 
sight, for a week or two.” 

“ Why, then,” said Willy, puzzled to know 
what he had best say, “ why, then, ma’am, I 
think she does want him particularly. I hard 
her sayin’ that she did.” 

“ And might 1 ask,” said Mrs. Watkins in 
her veiy sweetest tones, “ and might I ask 
what this particular purpose is, that it makes 
her so very urgent to see him ?” 

WUly hesitated, reddened, and looked at his 
brother with an air as though he expected 
some help from him in his dilemma. ButPe* 
ter only said,” Why don’t you speak,you fool- 
ish boy, an’ not stand there like a fool. Sure 
it's no treason, I hope.” 

” Well, then my mother was sayin’, Pether, 
that she wants to have you go to your duty, 
an’ that’s all ; she’s afeard you might neglect 
it.” 

Mrs. Watkins affected ignorance. “To go 
to his duty ; and what is that, pray ? What 
duty does the woman mean ?” 

“ Why, to go to his confession, ma’am !” 
said Willy, with a look of undisguised amaze- 
ment, “I’m goin,’ please God, some day thi 
week, an’ my mother thinks he ought to go at 
the same time.” 


67 


Here Mrs. Watkins burst into a loud laugh 
— louder than she usually indulged in — while 
even her grave husband letting fall his book, 
was heard to utter a deep, low sound that 
might be taken as a similar demonstration. 

“ Oh, if that bo the object, ” said the lady, 
when she had in some degree recovered her 
composure, “ lessons and everything else must, 
of course, give way. Oh ! certainly, Peter, my 
good boy, you must go to confession, and when 
you are about it. you will, of course, tell the 
priest of that grievous sin of having gone for 
some days to a school from which papist books 
are excluded. Now, Mr. Watkins,” she added, 
turning to that gentleman, “is not this the dark- 
est invention of the Evil One — only see how 
these poor, ignorant people are kept in thrall.” 

Willy had listened to this exordium with no 
small indignation, and when it was concluded 
he advanced a step towards hi^ brother, while 
his cheek glowed and his eye flashed. 

“ Are you cornin’, Pether,” he said, “or are 
you not ? — what am I to tell my mother ?” 

Alas’ ! the poison was already eating into the 
soul of the elder brother, and though his cheek, 
too, wore a crimson flush, it was one of shame 
— not resentment. He was angry with his bro- 
ther, too, for having spoken as he did. “ Jist 
tell her that I’m old enough to mind my own 


68 


affairs — an’ see that you don’t come here on 
any more such errands, or you’ll not be thank- 
ful to yourself. I’ll go to see my mother when 
it answers me, — so walk noAV. ” 

“You just serve him right, Peter,” said Mrs. 
AVatkins, extending her hand to the boy as she 
spoke, with a smile of approbation, “ I would 
have you treat your mother respectfully, of 
course, but do not suffer her to carry your rea- 
son captive. Learn to think for yourself where 
your immortal welfare — and temporal, too — is 
at stake.” 

“ So you’ll not come — an that’s the message 
I’m to give my poor mother,” said AVilly, still 
addressing his brother. “ Then may God look 
doAvn on you, Pether Burke, this blessed night 
— I would’nt be in your coat, fine as it is, for 
all the money Mr. Watkins has. God be with 
you, brother ! — we can only pray for you, an’ 
that we’ll do.” The tears rushed to his eyes, 
and he hastily left the room and the house, his 
heart swelling with mingled sorrow and indig- 
nation. 

It was a cold, rainy evening, and the 
lamps themselves shed but a dull, dim light 
on the cheerless streets, but Willy Burke 
heeded not the falling rain, nor the cold, nor 
noticed the bleak aspect of the city, as he 
passed along with a hurried step on his home- 


69 


ward way. Never had his young heart been 
so heavily crushed. Never had he felt so 
wretched. Keenly susceptible as his feelings 
were, this first instance of unkindness from his 
only brother wrung his very heart. And then 
his mother — that best and most beloved of pa- 
rents — to hear her spoken of in the most con- 
temptuous manner, and to reflect that his bro- 
ther, her eldest born, had tacitly encouraged the 
reviler, the mocker of that revered parent, and 
of the faith which should be defended and 
professed at the expense of all worldly hqpes 
and interests. Outraged in his brotherly love, 
in his filial respect and affection^ and in his re- 
ligious principles, the noble-hearted boy felt 
T^dthin him a mixture of grief and indignation 
which he himself could not have described, 
though it seemed throbbing in his heart and in 
his brain. On he went, then, through the fast- 
falling rain, nor perceived that his thin, thread- 
bare jacket was saturated through and through, 
until his mother’s anxious tenderness discover- 
ed the fact the moment he entered the room. 

“ Why, Willy dear, your clothes are all wet 
— sure I did’nt think it was rainin’ so heavy. 
Why did’nt you go into some house, poor fel- 
low, till the shower ’id be over, an’ you know- 
in’ that your clothes were, so thin an’ light ? ” 


70 


“To tell you the thruth, mother,” said Willy, 
“ I did’nt think about the rain at all.” 

His mother had been till now busily engag- 
ed making up a good fire, and it was only 
the tone in which her son spoke that drew her 
eyes to his face. “ Why, then, God bless us, 
Willy darlin’, what’s the matther with you, at 
all ? You look as if somethin’ had happened 
you. Did you see Pether ? But then before 
you tell me any thing you must peel off every 
tack, till I dhry them here at the fire. An’ as 
you have no other clothes to put on, I think 
it’s betther for you go to bed till they’re dhry. 
But no,” she said, suddenly changing her 
mind, “ I’ll put that big- coat o’ your poor fa- 
ther’s about you, an’ you can sit down hero in 
the corner. Go into the room there, dear, an’ 
take off your things — the coat’s hangin’ up, 
you know at the foot o’ the bed, an’ come out 
when you have it on. I’ll have a bit o’ supper 
warm for you when you come back.” The 
boy obeyed in silence, but his mother heard 
him sigh heavily when he was alone. “ God 
help you, poor child !” was the prayer of her 
loving, sorrowful heart as she went on with 
the preparation of their humble meal. 

“ An’ now, what about Pether, •acushla ?' 
said Mrs. Burke when her son rolled up in his 
dead father’s over-coat took his place at the 


71 


little table, a chair having been placed for him 
by his little sisters, in the warmest corner. 

“ Indeed, mother dear ! I don’t like to tell 
you what I seen an’ heard since I left you, but 
there’s no use tryin’ to hide it, for the sooner 
you know it, it’s all the better.” The poor 
mother sat down on the opposite side of the 
fire, pale, and trembling, for these words seem- 
ed to herald a justification of her secret fears. 
But when she heard all — the jibing sneers 
wherewith one of the holiest sacraments of the 
church had been spoken of : her son’s unduti- 
ful and ungrateful message, and worse than all, 
his silence when his religion was so basely re- 
viled — when she heard all this, (even though 
her son told her nothing of the contemptuous 
epithets bestowed on herself,) it seemed as 
though a fearful weight fell suddenly and 
crushingly on her heart, and sinking back in 
her chair, she covered her face with her hands. 
But no tear came to her relief, for her eyes were 
dry and burning, and for some seconds she 
spoke not a word. 

Willy and the little girls were alarmed by 
her silence, and all three gathered fondly a- 
round her, beseeching her to speak to them. 

“ Sure, mother darlin !” said Willy, twining 
his arm around her neck, “ sure it’s not so bad 
but it might be worse. God loves you too 


72 > 


well to let Pether come to harm, an’ I’m sure 
if you go to see him yourself, you’ll find him 
as good an’ dutiful as ever, for I know he loves 
you in his heart, poor follow ! an’ it’s only the 
had advice that made him act that way !” 

“ An’ you’re right enough, my own darlin’ 
son,” cried his mother, starting to her feet, 

“ thanks be to God I can still take him home, 
for I’m sure he’ll not disobey me when I bid 
him come with me. Plase the Lord, I’ll go in 
the mornin’ early an’ bring him home, an’ if 
I only get him safe out of it, a child o’ mine 
’ll never set foot in the same house ; I’d soon- 
er see ye, ay, a thousand times ! go into a • 
plague-house ! There now, Willy dear ! sit 
down to your supper ; no, children ! don’t ask 
me, for my heart’s so full I couldn’t ate a bit. 
When ye’re done your supper, we’ll get our 
prayers said, an’ go early to bed, for I’m not 
to say very weU.” 


CHAPTER IV. 

THE BROKEN HE.\RT. 

'The long, wakeful night was at length pass- 
ed, and Mrs. Burke, having said her morning 
prayers, put her little place in order, and gave 
her children their breakfast, then set out for 
Mrs. Watkins’s, somewhat strengthened and 
comforted by the hope that now at least she 


73 


would have her son home with her, — consol- 
ing herself mth the reflection that she was 
about to snatch him from the fiery furnace of 
temptation which had already scathed his soul. 
Full of these hopeful thoughts she knocked at 
the door, and on being admitted requested to 
see her son. “He’s gone to the country, Mrs. 
Burke,” said the girl who opened the door. 

“ Gone to the countliry ! — ah, then, when 
did he go, Ellen ?” 

“This morning — but here’s the mistress 
coming to speak to you.” • The servant disap- 
peared just as Mrs. Watkins advanced in her 
elegant morning- di'ess. 

“ Good-morning, Mrs. Burke,” said the lady, 
with lofty condescension, “ I hope I see you 
in good health.” 

“ Well, no, ma’am — many thanks for your 
kind enquiry, — but I’m not half well these 
times. Indeed, only the business it is, I could’ nt 
stir out at all this mornin’, so early, for, God 
help me, I’m gettin’ so feeble that I can scarce 
do a hand’s turn. But is it thrue, ma’am, that 
Pether’s not here this mornin’ ?” 

“ Why, yes, Mrs. Burke, Mr. Watkins sent 
him off about an hour ago on an errand of trust 
to our steward in the country.” 

“ An’ will he be long away, Mrs. Watkins?” 
was the trembling question of the poor mother* 


74 


* 

who saw in this timely absence but another 
subterfuge to keep possession of the boy. — 
“ Will he be back to-day, ma’am ?” 

“ Really, I cannot say, it may be that the 
steward may find work for him for a few days 
— but I do not pretend to know.” 

The poor, disappointed mother raised her 
dim eyes to heaven, and murmured in an un- 
der tone, “ May God have mercy on me, and 
on this poor, thoughtless boy.” 

“ Why truly,” said Mrs. Watkins, assuming 
an air of offended dignity, “ Why, truly, you 
are the strangest woman — one would think 
you had heard some mournful tidings, you 
have put on such a long face. What harm, I 
pray you, will your son receive from going for 
a few days to the country ? Surely Mr. Wat- 
kins is at liberty to employ him as his affairs 
require.” 

“ Och, it is’nt that, ma’am, it is’nt that !” 
And the widow as she spoke was forced to lean 
against the wall near her. “ God knows I’d 
be the first to advise him to obey his masther’s 
ordhers, an’ to be always ready an’ willin’ to 
do his duty to you an’ him,— but somehow 
I’m afeard ma’am, (I may as u'ell tell you the 
thruth) that he s not goin’ on as I’d wish, with 
regard to his duty to God — an’ that’s the maii> 
point, afther all.” 


75 


Mrs. Watkins smiled. “ Oh, I understand. 
I remember now that your youngest son 
brought a message to his brother about going 
to confession, or somcthiiag of that sort. But 
I should suppose that the matter is not so very 
important but it can be deferred till his re- 
turn. He may have a few more sins to confess 
to be sure, but then, you know, it will be all 
the same to the priest — so pray don’t trouble 
yourself on that head. You can go home now, 
arid when Peter comes he shall make a confes- 
sion that will banish all your fears.” And so 
saying, she coolly opened the door — a signifi- 
cant hint that she desired no farther conversa- 
tion. 

Mrs. Burke drew her old shawl closely 
around her, being suddenly seized with a cold 
shivering — her pale, thin face assumed a still 
more palled hue, and her tongue refused to ar- 
ticulate a word. She might have passed out 
without being able to make any sort of reply, 
had not Mrs. Watkins said ^^'ith a cold smile, 

“I see you are at a loss for words to express 
your anger, but pray do not curse me, heretic 
as I am. Your priest might readily excuse the 
sin, and even consider it as none, but God, my 
good woman, will not view the matter as your 
father confessor does, nor forgive you so rea- 
dily.” 


76 


The poor Avoman felt at the moment a chok- 
ing sensation in her throat which for a second 
or two she could not overcome, and she stood 
gasping as though for breath, with her eyes 
fixed on the lady. The latter, somewhat alarm- 
ed, extended her hand, as though to support 
her, but at the moment it seemed as though 
strength irom above were given to the sufferer, 
and moving a pace nearer the door, she made 
an effort to say — ‘‘No, thank you, ma’am, Tm 
betther noAv — it was only a little wakeness I 
took. Tm goin’ now, ma’am, an’ God knows 
whether we’ll ever meet again, but I want to 
tell j'ou before I go that you know little of our 
holy religion, or you would’ nt spake of it as 
you do. No, Mrs. Watkins, I was’nt thinkin’ 
of cursin’ you, or any one else — God knows I 
was’nt — but I Avas goin’ to pray the merciful 
God that you might never have as sore a heart 
as I have this day.” So saying, she moved 
away, and slowly descended the steps in front 
of the door, being, indeed, scarcely able to sup- 
port herself. Mrs. Watkins stood and looked 
after her a moment, as she moved heavily 
along, her thin, attenuated figure but scantily 
covered from the cold, sharp air — she thought 
of the provocation she had so wantonly given, 
and of the Christian meekness of her parting 
Avmrds, and she said within herself : “ How 


77 


unlike all that I have heard and read of these 
Romanists. After all this poor woman seems 
to have some little glimmering of Gospel 
light.” For a moment her better nature pre- 
dominated, and she was about to call the poor 
washerwoman back, in order to apologise for 
her unkindness, but, alas, the evil spirit of 
pride resumed the mastery, the door was clos- 
ed after the poor, shivering woman, and the 
opportunity passed away — never to retuim. 

Mrs. Burke on reaching her own dwelling 
was unable to ascend the stairs, without assist- 
ance from the good woman of the house. The 
disease which had been so long manfully re- 
sisted, would now no longer be baffled or put 
off, and the heart-rending emotions of the last 
twenty- four hours brought on a violent fever 
— that evening the poor mother lay oh her bed, 
n the first wild paroxysms of a high fever, 
while her throe children stood around, stupi- 
fied with grief and terror of they knew not 
what. It was fortunate that Willy, in the 
first hours of his mother’s illness, had run to 
tell the priest (^not that he feared his mother’s 
death, but that he knew no other friend on 
whom to call), and towards evening the ven- 
erable clergyman entered the room, to the 
great relief of tlie children. 

Although Father Fitzherbert saw at a glance 


78 


that the deliroiis state of the patient rendered 
spiritual consolation impossible, yet, still he 
lingered by the bed, not wishing to deprive 
the children of the comfort they seemed to 
derive from his presence, and, moreover, di- 
recting them to prepare some suitable drink 
and mediciiie for their mother, himself having 
given Willy the money to make the niicessary 
purchases. While he sat by the bed, waiting 
to see the effect of the medicine he had given, 
he was painfully struck by the incessant wail- 
ing of the unconscious sufferer, as even amidst 
the wanderings of delirium she called ever for 
her absent son, and bemoaned his loss. Scarce- 
ly another name but his was heard in her rav- 
ings, and the good priest at length turned to 
Willy where he stood leaning over the foot- 
rail of the bed. 

“ Does your brother know of his mother’s 
illness r” The boy started at the question, and 
made an effort to reply, but the words seemed 
to stick in his throat, and a scarlet flush mount- 
ed to his cheek. Deeming all this emotion but 
the natural effect of violent and deep grie^ the 
priest turned to one of the little girls and re- 
peated his enquiry. 

“No, your reverence, I don’t think he does,’’ 
was her reply, “ for there was no word sent to 
him about it.’’ 


79 


“ Then I would have you go at once, my 
boy,” said Father Fitzherbert, “ and let your 
brother know, for if you wait even another 
day it may be too late ; and from the constant 
allusion your mother makes to him, I am per- 
suaded that his presence will ease her mind 
when once this delirium has passed away. 
You will go then as soon as possible, and I 
will remain here till you return.” 

But Willy, with all his habitual veneration 
for the clergy, seemed in no hurry to obey, and 
it was easy enough to see that the command 
was anything but agreeable to him. This the 
priest saw, and saw it w'ith surprise, for Mrs. 
Burke, in speaking of her children some days 
before, had dwelt with excusable pride on the 
docility and other good qualities of her younger 
son. But Willy, like all others, had his own 
faults of mind and temper, and amongst these 
was a tenacious remembrance of injury, whe- 
ther real or fancied, which now steeled his 
heart against his brother. 

“Are you not going, Willy,” asked the 
priest, mildly. Willy had taken down his 
cap from the pin where it usually hung, and 
now stood twirling it between his hands. He 
dared not raise his eyes, for he felt that a 
piercing glance rested upon him. 

“ Only for who it is that bids me, I would’nt 


80 


go a step afther him,” he said, doggedly, “ for 
it’s little he desers’cs it. If it was’nt for him 
an’ his Mrs. Watlcms, poor mother would’ nt 
be lyin’ where she is, for they broke her heart 
between them, an’ now I’d jist let them alone 
together ! ” 

” Child ! ” asked Father Fitzherbert, in his 
sweet, solemn tones, ” Child ! do you call 
yourself a Christian — a Catholic ? ” 

“ I do, your reverence — to be sure I do ! ” 

“Are you aware, then, that as such, you arc 
bound — imperatively bound, to go on this er- 
rand of kindness and of charity ? If your bro- 
ther hath erred, let him answer to God for his 
fault, — it is not for you to inflict upon him so 
grievous a punishment as tliis. How know you 
but that the solemn scene which here awaits 
him will effectually open his eyes to the truth ; 
and would you, through a feeling of resent- 
ment — as unkind as it is uncharitable — with- 
hold from him the benefit of a djing mother’s 
blessing, and her last advice ? and deprive that 
mother herself, so justly dear to you, the com- 
fort of seeing him before she leaves this world, 
for I warn you, that moment is even now not 
far distant. No, my son, you will go on this 
mission of love and peace, and God will bless 
you here and hereafter ; for, himself hath as- 
sured us that the merciful ‘ shall obtain mer- 
cy.’ ” 


81 


He was interrupted by the deep, repentant 
sobs of the boy, and he had barely concluded 
when 'Willy was on his knees before him, his 
eyes brimful of tears, and his hands clasped in 
the attitude of earnest supplication. “ Forgive 
me, your reverence ! ” ho exclaimed, in a half- 
stifled voice, “ 1 confess myself in the wrong, 
an’ I humbly beg your pardon.” 

Father Fitzherbert raised him from the floor. 

“ Not my pardon, but that of God ; the God 
who hateth the proud and revengeful. Ask 
pardon of Him, my poor child ! not of an un- 
worthy mortal, like unto thyself.” 

“ Then I ask God’s pardon and yours, sir ! 
an’ I’ll promise, ■v\ith the help of God, never 
to keep spite again. God forgive me, I was 
very black against poor Pether these days past, 
but now I’ll just run as fast as I can, an’ let him 
know about mother’s sickness. I’ll be back, 
your reverence, in less than no time ! ” And 
ere a word could be spoken in reply, he was 
hurrying dowm the stairs, leaving the priest 
amazed at the rapid and entire revulsion which 
a few simple words had effected. But he 
speedily arrived at the conclusion that their 
marvellous success was owing to the excel] ent v- 
training which had implanted the divine truths 
of religion in the fervid soul of the boy, and 
fostered therein the liveliest remembrance of 
God. F 


82 


Peter Burke was not, yet returned from the 
country, and Willy delivered his message to 
Mrs. Watkins, earnestly imploring that his 
brother might be sent for, “An’ if you’ll only 
have the goodness to tell me the way, ma’am,” 
said he, “I’ll thry an’ mike out the place my- 
self, with God’s help ! ” 

Mrs. Watkins, to do her justice, was shocked 
to hear of Mrs. Burke’s alarming illness ; and 
as she thought of her emaciated features, and 
wo-begone looks during their last interview, and 
remembered the deadly faintness which had 
come over her, the inward monitor of all man- 
kind spoke out fearfully loud within her soul, 
charging her with the unwarrantable part she 
had acted towards the poor, unprotected 
widow. An ashy paleness overspread her face, 
as she said, in tremulous accents, “ No, Willy, 
you could never make your wa}”^ there alone ; 
but go home, now, and to-morrow morning, by 
the first light of day I shall send for your bro- 
ther, and have him go to his mother at once. 
Nay, I may even send to-night; it is not yet 
too late ! ” 

“ Thank you, ma’am,” said Willy, with a 
low bow, and he hastened away, being anxious 
to relieve the priest from his watch beside the 
sick bed of his mother. On entering the room, 
ho found there Mrs. O’Grad}', the landlady, 


83 


who had kindly volunteered to take care of her 
lodger during her illness. The good woman 
had a grown-up daughter, who, as she said to 
Father Fitzherbert, could keep house for her 
in her absence, “An’ so, in the name o’ God, 
your reverence. I’ll stay an’ do all I can for 
Mrs. Burke, an’ sorry I am this day to see her 
lyin’ so low — indeed, we don’t see many now- 
a-days like her ! ” 

This proposal was gratefully accepted, for 
Father Fitzherbert had been anxiously casting 
about in his mind where he was to find a nurse. 
Immediately after Willy’s return he withdrew, 
promising to come early on the following day* 
“Not,” said he to Mrs. O’Grady, “not that I 
expect our patient will have recovered her 
senses so soon, for I am quite sure she will be 
three days, if not more, without undergoing 
much change, but I will call every day, to see 
how matters are going on. The truth is, Mrs. 
O’Grady,” he added, in a lower voice, as the 
good woman lighted him doAvn stairs, “the 
truth is, that when once this delirium has 
passed away there will not be a moment to 
lose in administering the last sacraments, for I 
tell you candidly that (he violence of this fit 
will exhaust the little strength she had, and 
she may drop off at any monrent from excessive 
weakness. I will send a little good wine. 


81 


"wliicli lu&y be given in smull cjniintities i\bcn 
tbe fever has once subsided, so as to keep her 
up as long as possible. I will also send a doc- 
tor. Good night ! ” 

All that night the rage of the fever continu- 
ed unabated, and the doctor whom Father 
Fitzherbert had sent, finding when he came 
in the morning that some cooling medicines 
were required, desired Willy to go with him 
that he might fetch them back. Being obliged 
to wait a little while for the powders, Willy 
was longer absent than he had expected, and 
on reaching the top of the stairs at his return, 
the first sounds that greeted his car were the 
deep sobs of his brother, who had arrived a 
little before, and was now kneeling in an ag- 
ony of sorrow and remorse beside his mother’s 
bed. The tears \v ere streaming from the poor 
lad’s ej'es, and the hot fevering hand of his 
mother was closely pressed to his heart, while 
ever and anon he kissed it with passionate 
fondness. There were none present, but the 
two little girls who stood silently by, looking 
alternately at their sick mother, and the bro- 
ther, whose grief they would fain have lessen- 
ed, but knew not how. It was cruel anguish 
for poor Peter to listen to the tender yet re- 
proachful words which fell ever from the parch- 
ed lips of the sufferer, as she seemed to ima- 


85 


gine hei’self talking to him. At times she 
spoke of his father, and once or twice of Willy, 
but ever did the course of her incoherent ram- 
blings recur to himself. “ Poor Pether !” she 
would murmur ; “ poor child ! — och, then, 
Pether dear ! if you’d only think of yourself, 
think of your sol, agra gal ! sure what about 
the poor body ? Oh ! Pether ! Pether ! didn’t 
your father tell you to be thrue to your reli- 
gion ! — who’s that says he’s going to be a Pro- 
testant r” she cried with a wild stare, and half 
raising herself in the bed — “no, Mrs. Watkins, 
you needn’t think or say any such a thing, — 
didn’t I bi'ing him into the world, an’ am’nt I 
answerable to God for his sol? No, ma’am! 
it was’nt for the likes o’ that he came here,an’ 
I have that much thrust in God, that I’m sure 
he’d never let a child o’ mine fall into your 
snares !’’ She fell back exhausted, and lay 
with closed eyes motionless, while Peter sob- 
bed out anew, and spoke aloud in the fulhiess 
of his heart. 

“ No, mother dear ! with God’s help there’s 
no danger, — only live, — only open your eyes, 
and tell your poor Peter that you know him, 
and that you’ll forgive him, and he’ll never 
give you reason to complain of him again. Oh! 
mother darlin’, are you dead ? — oh ! what will 
I do at all ?’’ and in the extremity of his an- 


86 


guish, he started to his feet and wrung his 
hands wildly. 

“ She’s not dead, Pether !— she’s only in a 
kind of a slumber, that she falls into after a 
fit!” and as Willy spoke, he flung his arms 
around his brother’s neek with all the gush- 
ing affection of their childish days. “But 
sure there’s no use in grievin’ an’ frettin’ that 
way, brother ! — it ’id be better for us to pray 
to God, an’ maybe He’d take pity on us, an’ 
spare Aer life ! Come, children, let us all kneel 
down !” The little gilds passively obeyed, and 
Peter fell again on his knees, with his face laid 
on the coverlid of his mother’s bed. Few 
and simple were the words they uttered, and 
it was only Willy who said aloud, “ Oh ! Lord! 
spare us our mother, our good mother,for what 
W’ould we do without her, if she was taken 
away from us ?” 

“Ah, then, God’s blessin’ be about ye, for 
good children that ye are ! ” cried Mrs. O’- 
Grady, who just then entered, and kneeling, 
she joined in their prayer for a moment. “ But 
now I must see to your mother ! ” and rising 
she approached the bed. 

When Peter had talked a little wMle with 
his brother and sisters, he asked Mrs. O’ Grady 
whether she thought there was any hope that 
his mother would soon be sensible again. Be- 


87 


fore the good woman had time to answer, the 
patient started from her feverish slumber, and 
Droke out again into her broken and uncon- 
nected exclamations. 

“There’s your answer now, Peter ! ’’ said 
Mrs. O’ Grady, as she hastened to administer a 
portion of the medicine sent by the doctor. 
“An’ I’m afcard it’ll be some time before she 
knows any one — God help her ! ’’ 

“ Then I need’nt be waitin’ here, Willy ! ’’ 
said Peter, turning to his brother, “ there’s 
enough of ye to take care of her, an’ I could 
do no good. Mrs. Watkins has promised to 
give me some money for my mother, an’ to 
send her some nice things that’ll be good for 
her, if I’ll hurry back home, for we have a 
great deal to do in the office.’’ 

“An’ what are you doin’ in the office, Peter ? ” 
asked Willy, drily, for he did not at all like 
this new move of his brother, “ sure you can’t 
write any yet for them ? ’’ 

“ No,” said the other, with some little em- 
barrassment, “but I can tie up papers, an’ 
keep the place in order, while the clerks are 
all busy writin’. I’ll come back in the evenin’, 
an’ if mother’s no bctthcr. I’ll stay all night.” 

“Ah, then, that same ’ill be a great stretch 
o’ kindness,” retorted Willy, whose anger was 
again rising, and though he did not allow it to 


88 


burst out, yet he could not prevent himself 
from speaking tartly and testily. “ It’s a good 
thing that mother’s not dependin’ on you any 
way, or I’m afoard she’d come off badly. It’s 
well for her that Father Fitzherbert knows 
where she lives, an’ you may tell Mrs. Wat- 
kins that. I’m sure, Pether Burke, if you were 
as you ought to be, you’d never darken Mrs. 
Watkins’ door, afther the way she has thrated 
my poor heart-broken mother.” 

“ I can’t wait to answer j’ou now,” was Pe- 
ter’s reply, “ but you may be sure, Willy, that 
I jist think as much about my mother as you 
do, for all your talk ! ” And going over to the 
bed, he took up his mother’s hand and kissed 
it fondly; then without another word, not 
even to his sisters, he hurried from the room. 

On his return, Peter found Mrs. Watkins 
anxiously looking out for him, and her kind 
inquiries for his mother completely softened 
his heart, so that he was disposed to regard her 
as the best and truest of friends. A dangerous 
illusion, which the lady well knew how to turn 
to account. Fmding how deeply the sight of 
his mother, in her present condition, had af- 
fected the boy’s really wann heart, and dread- 
ing the effect of that mother’s counsels and en- 
treaties, should he be left to their undivided 
influence, when her reason returned ; so Mrs. 


89 


Watkins kindly proposed that she herself 
would accompany him in his future visits. 
“ For I am really anxious,” said she, “ to judge 
for myself as to the progress of her disease. 
The things which I told you I would send, are 
all in readiness, so that we can take them v. ith 
us in the evening. Go now to Mr. Watkins, 
for while he is so hurried with business for a 
few days, he cannot spare you to go to school. 

In the course of the afternoon. Father Fitz- 
herbert again visited Mrs. Burke, whom he 
found still delirious, and fearfully weak, not- 
withstanding the rage of the fever. From 
Willy he received an account of Peter’s visit 
and to his penetrating mind, “ the trail of the 
serpent” was distinctly visible in the whole 
conduct of the Watkins’s as regarded the 
Burke family. “’There is here,” said he, 
within himself, “ a deep-laid plan to ensnare 
this thoughtless boy, — may God, in his mercy^ 
defeat their designs, and restrain this poor lamb 
from straying beyond the fold !” “ Your bro- 

ther is to come back here in the evening, is he 
not ?” he said aloud to Willy. “Yes. your 
reverence ! he said he’d come an’ stay over 
night, if mother wasn’t better.” 

“ Then I must see and speak with him ;” 
Father Fitzherbert, as he spoke, approached 
the bed, and taking up the hand that lay on 


90 


the coverlid, he found that the pulse was much 
less violent than it had been even half an hour 
before. “Mrs. O’Grady,’ ' he said to the nurse, 

“ the fever is already subsiding, so you will 
require to pay the utmost attention, so as to 
lose no time in giving some of that strengthen- 
ing cordial on the first apjjcarance of returning 
consciousness. Has the doctor been here to- 
day ?” 

“ Yes,your reverence! he called about noon, 
and he thinks that towards evening she may 
come to herself a little. He just told me what 
j'our reverence does, that I have need to look 
sharp.” 

The twilight was deepening around, and 
Willy, with Ally and Biddy, had drawn near 
the hearth, whereon a log or two of wood was 
blazing. Mrs. O’ Grady and one of her daugh- 
ters were also there, and the good woman was 
relating in a low voice some old reminiscence 
of her native land. They all believed that the 
sick woman slept, for during the last hour or 
two she had lain in a heavy slumber, when 
suddenly her voice was heard, low and faint, 
but yet distinct, calling “Willy !” There was 
no other light in the room than that of the fire, 
but when the boy starting to his feet, reached 
the bed with almost a single step, he saw that 
his mother’s eyes were open, and that she was 


91 


trying to raise herself on her elbow. Stooping 
over her, he held her up, saying tenderly, 
“ Mother dear ! do you know me ?” 

“ Ah, then, I do, Willy : thanks be to God ! 
but is it sleepin’ I was this long time, or what 
for I had sich terrible dreams ?” she spoke al- 
most in a whisper, but her words brought tears 
of joy to Willy’s eyes, and bending down, he 
kissed her. “ Sure it was ravin’ you were, all 
the time. But thanks be to God, mother 
dear ! that you’re gettin’ sensible again.” 

By this time the little girls had reached the 
bedside, and, wild with joy, would have kissed 
their mother over and over again ; but Mrs. 
O’ Grady quickly interposed, and gently drew 
them away, asking, “ Do yes want to kill your 
mother out an’ out ? An’ you, too, Willy ! 
come ^way from there, good boy ! you can do 
your mother no good ; so leave her to me till 
I give her what I ^Vas bid ! ” 

“ Only let me ask him one question, Mrs. 
O’Grady, an’ then he’ll go — was Pether here 
at all, Willy, since I took bad ? ” 

“ He was, mother ; he was here a good while 
this mornin’ an’ he said he’d come back in the 
evenin’ to see how you’d be ; an’ indeed, mo- 
ther dear, he was in black trouble, when he 
seen you so low ! ” 

“ Well, God be praised for that same, dear ! 


92 


there’s a chance for him still ! ” and she raised 
her eyes to heaven in silent thanksgiving, while 
her kind nurse put the wine to her parched 
lips. Feeling much refreshed, even b}' the few 
spoonsful given her, she w'ould have expressed 
her gratitude to Mrs. O' Grady, but that the 
good woman would not permit. “No, no, dear, 
don’t say a word about it ; sure it’s only my 
duty I’m doin’ ; be quiet now, Mrs. Burke, 
dear ! until you gather a little strength, an’ 
then you may talk as much as you like ! Light 
a candle there, children ! ’’ 

“Well, but, Mrs. O’Grady,’’ said the sick 
woman, “ I want to tell you about a thing that’s 
throublin’ me very much. There’s some clothes 
there in the tub, belongin’ to a lad y down town, 
an’ she paid me beforehand for doin’ them, 
too — God bless her kind heart. Now, ^you’d 
be so good as to get one o’ the girls to wash 
an’ iron them, so that Willy could take them 
home, it ’id be a great relief to my mind, an’ 
I’ll pay you, plase God, what I got myself for 
doin’ them — that’s half a dollar ! ’’ 

“Ah, then, if that’s all that’s troublin’ you, 
Mrs. Burke, dear ! you may make your mind 
easy ; for my Anne there did them up an’ 
ironed them this mornin’, an’ now they’re aired 
an’ all ready to send home, but I did’nt know 
where to send them. Willy can go with them 


93 


as soon as you like ; an’ as to the payment, 
aroon ! I’ll not take a penny. So, don’t let me 
hear a word more'about it ; if God spares you 
life an’ health, you’ll do as much for me when 
I’m in a pinch ! ” 

“ Well, God reward you — for I’m sure I 
never can ; that’s all I can say ! ” was Mrs. 
Burke’s reply, and her faint, tremulous tones 
alarmed her nurse so much that she would not 
suffer her to say another word. 


CHAPTER V. 

A MOTHER’S DEATH BED. 

About half an hour had passed, Willy wiis 
gone home with the basket of clothes, and his 
mother had fallen into a light slumber, when 
she was.suddenly awoke by a low whispering at 
the door, and starting she said, “ Isn’t that 
Pether’s voice I hear ? Are you there Pether?” 

“ I am then, mother dear !” cried Peter, dart- 
ing forward, and throwing his arms round his 
mother’s neck, he burst into tears, while the fond 
parent clasped him to her heart .with a sort of 
convulsive strength. 

“ An’ you’ll not leave me again, my son ! 
I’ll not throuble you long, an’ I’d wish to have 
ye 2.11 around me at the last. You’ll not leave 
me. Pother 


94 


“No, mother darlin,’ I’ll stay with you as 
long as you wish,” and as Peter spoke, the big 
tears rolled down his cheeks, attesting the 
depth and sincerity of his feelings. 

“Well, now, isn’t this purty work !” cried 
Mrs. O’ Grady, as she saw the sick woman fall 
back exhausted on the bed. “ Get out of the 
way, Peter Burke ! don’t you see your mother’s 
not able to spake or to move ! Go an’ see 
who’s that cornin’ up the stairs, — I think it’s a 
stringer.” 

“ It’s Mrs. Watkins, mothei',” said Peter, 
who having gone to the door, as directed, re- 
turned, ushering in the lady, who had judged 
it better to let Peter come alone, and then fol- 
low herself. A servant also entered the room, 
carrying a basket, which his mistress ordered 
him to set down and then withdrew. 

There was but little satisfaction in the smile 
with which Mrs. Burke met the pitying look 
of her visitor, and when the latter kindly in- 
quired how she found herself, she coldly an- 
swered, “ A little better, thank God, and you 
for askin’, ma’am !” 

The truth was that poor !Mrs. Burke felt 
sadly disappointed by this visit, for it happen- 
ed at a moment when she was endeavoring to 
gather sufficient strength to give a solemn ad- 
monition to her son Peter, touching the af- 
fairs of his soul. 


95 


Mrs. O’Grady placed a chair for the lady 
near the bed, but failed not as she did so, to 
express her opinion that the patient should be 
left undisturbed ; — “ for,” said she, “she’s not 
able to talk, an’ no one ought to spake to her 
while she’s so weak !” 

Before any one had replied, Willy’s voice 
was heard on the stairs, calling out for a light, 
and in a moment he made his appearance ■with 
Father Fitzherbert. “ Here’s Father Fitzher- 
bert, mother dear !” he said, and the effect was 
like magic, — the poor woman’s eyes were sud- 
denly lit up with the brighest joy, — the very 
announcement seemed to give her strength, for 
she started almost to a sitting posture, and re- 
mained resting on her elbow. 

“Thanks be to the Lord !” was her fervent 
exclamation, as the priest approached the bed, 
“ that I see your reverence again. I know I’m 
not long for this world, an’ I was beginnin’ to 
be afeard that you wouldn’t be here in time. 
But sure I might have known that my heaven- 
ly Father wouldn’t take me away unprepared! 
— oh, glory, honor, an’ praise to his holy name, 
— it’s little I deserve his mercy. 

“ I am glad to find that you have recovered 
your senses, Mrs. Burke,” said the priest, as 
bowing to Mrs. Watkins, he took up the hand 
of the patient. “But your pulse indicates ex- 


96 


tremc weakness, and I would advise you to 
keep as quiet as possible for a few hours, until 
your strength is somewhat recruited !” 

“ Well, but, your reverence. I’ll not be con- 
tented till I have got the rites of the church, — 
onlj' hear my confession, sir, an’ give m e the 
blessed sacrament, an’ then, I’ll be as quiet as 
can bo, — there’s somethin’ tellin’ me that my 
end is near, an’ I’m sure your reverence would 
not hide it from me !” 

“ Certainly not,” replied Father Fitzherbert; 
“ such a course would ill become a minister of 
religion, whose duty it is to prepare souls for 
leaving this^^world, — you are not in error , 'my 
child ! — the opinion of your medical attendant 
agrees with my own, and we both think that 
you have not many hours to live.” 

Here the children, not even excepting Peter, 
burst into a passion of grief, while their mother 
turned upon them a glanee of unutterable ten- 
derness, whore they stood grouped together 
near the head of the bed, — “ Whisht, children!” 
she said after a moment’s silence, during which 
she was evidently offering herself and them to 
God, — “ whisht, my darlins, there’s no use in 
ye cryin’ that way, — if it was God’s will I’d 
rather be left here a little longer till ye’d be 
all able to do for ycrselves, an’ to go on in the 
way of salvation tluough all the trials of this 


97 


Avorld, but since that’s not ordained for us, I’ll 
give ye all up to the protection of your heaven- 
ly Father, an’ He’ll do better for ye than I 
could. An’ Father Fitzherbert, too, I’m sure, 
he’ll watch over ye for God’s sake, — poor lone- 
some creatures that ye’ll be when I’m gone, 
so don’t fret, childhren dear ! — an’ now let ye 
all go away for a little while till I try to pre- 
pare myself for eternity ! — do now, there’s 
■good childhren. Willy do you take your poor 
little sisters down stairs for a while, an’ you, 
Pether, get a chair for Mrs. Watkins near the 
fire abroad in the kitchen, — if she wishes to 
stay a little longer.” 

Mrs. Watkins did wish to stay, hoping that 
she might induce Peter to go back with her, 
as she now more than ever feared that if she 
left him alone to the influence of such a scene, 
she might give him up as lost. Ere yet she 
had quitted the room, she heard Father Fitz- 
herbert tell Mrs. Burke that Willy had called 
to apprise him of her having recovered her 
senses, as otherwise he might not have come 
so soon. 

“Ay, it’s jist like him,” said the mother, in 

tone of deep feeling, “ it’s himself that was 
always thoughtful, an’ I hope, Gpd ’H give 
him grace to watch over his sisters, — if your 

reverence was talkin’ to Father Maloney — 

a 


98 


God’s blessiu’ be with, him ! — he’d tell you 
that my Willy had something good in him from 
his infancy, — an’ the last time he seen him — 
that was the night before we left home, when 
the priest was goin’ away, afther givin’ us all 
his blessin’, didn’t Willy, an’ him only a little 
fellow at the time, run afther him to the door 
till he blessed him over again.” 

An involuntary smile curled the lip of Mrs. 
Watkins as she overheard this simple effusion, 
and as Peter closed the door behind them, she 
looked into his face with a strange expression, 
half ironical, half comic, as though she would 
have said, “ Can you be influenced by such 
silly notions as these ? What a foolish woman 
your mother is !” And Peter blushed to the 
very temples, though ho said nothing, but si- 
lently placed a chair for the lady in the chim- 
ney coi’ner. Mrs. O’ Grady had gone down 
stairs for a few minutes, after Willy and the 
little girls, so that they were one left altoge- 
ther. 

During the short time that the room-door 
was closed, Mrs. W^atkins tried every art of 
persuasion to induce Peter to go back with her, 
representing to him that there was no appar- 
ent danger of his mother’s death — at least that 
night — and he could return next day as early 
as he chose. “ And what good will it do ci- 


99 


ther her or you, for you to remain over night. 
I should think there are far too many around 
her, and that she would be much better if left 
alone ^\'ith the nurse, who seems, by the bye, 
a very sensible and experienced person. And 
then Mr. Watkins will not think of coming to 
fetch me, naturally expecting that you will be 
back with me, so that if you do not come, I 
shall really be forced to go home alone, and at 
a most unseasonable hour !” 

“ No, no, ma’am !” said Peter quickly, 
“ there’s no need of you goin’ home by your- 
self, for sure I can go an’ leave you at home 
an’ then come back. But as for sta)^!’ away 
all night from my poor mother, an’ it may be 
the last night we’d have her, — oh, no ! ma’- 
am ! I wouldn’t take a mint of money an’ do 
it. God forbid that I’d be so hard-hearted or 
unnatural!” and the poor fellow’s tears burst 
forth anew. 

At this moment, when Mrs. Watkins was 
just about to renew her attack, the inner door 
opened, and Father Fitzherbert came out, ask- 
ing for Mrs. O’ Grady. Peter instantly ran to 
call her, and then would have passed into the 
room after the priest, who had left the door 
open, but Mrs. Watkins moving after him, re- 
quested to know whether she might not see 

Mrs. Burke for a moment before she left. 

* 


100 


“Yis to be sure, ma’am !” "was the faint re- 
sponse from the bed, and the lady sat down 
again, following with her scrutinizing eyes the 
motions of the priest who still wore his stole. 

“ Perhaps, madam !” said Father Fitzherbert, 
addressing the lady whom he knew only by 
Mrs. Burke’s account, “perhaps you do not 
know that I am about to administer the holy 
Eucharist to Mrs. Burke, and you may proba- 
bly choose to withdraw for the present. It is 
usual for all the Catholics in the house to be 
present if possible when the sacrament is giv- 
en to the dying, but it would be as well for 
those who do not believe as we do to retire !” 

Mrs. Watkins bowed her acquiescence, and 
resumed her place near the kitchen fire, though 
internally inveighing against the priest, for she 
was curious to see how these popish ceremonies 
were carried on. But Father Fitzherbert knew 
well the irreverent curiosity which would alone 
have been gratified, and the total w'ant of re- 
spect for the blessed sacrament, which in the 
event of her remaining in the room would 
have scandalized the children, and therefore 
politely hinted at the propriety of her retiring 
for a while. Willy and his sisters now came 
in, and they were followed by the O’Gradys, 
old and young. All passed into the inner 
chamber, and knelt as they entered in respect- 


101 


ful silence. Mrs. Burke lay calm and tran- 
quil, with her eyes closed, for her soul was 
rapt up in sweet communion with that God 
who was about “ to take up his abode” within 
her soul. Her thin- worn hands were clasped 
together outside the bed-clothes, and had it 
not been for the motion of her lips, she might 
have been believed dead. But not so, for when 
the priest, approaching with the blessed sacra- 
ment, raised his voice and said the well known 
words, “ Ecce Agnus De ^’ — “ Behold the Lamb 
of God — behold Him who taketh away the sins 
of the world !” she opened her eyes, and rais- 
ed hef hands in fervent thanksgiving, while a 
smile of exquisite joy crossed her wan features. 

“ Lord, I am not worthy thou shouldst enter 
under my roof, say but the word and my soul 
shall be healed. Sweet Lord Jesus, make my 
poor miserable soul clean an’ pure to receive 
thee !” and while these heart-felt ejaculations 
still hovered on her lips, she slightly raised 
her head, and received the bread of angels — 
the bread that giveth^life to the world. 

Sinking back on her bed, her eyes again 
closed, but the radiant smile was still on her 
lips, as she said in aloud, clear voice, “Thanks 
be to thee, oh God — my God ! — what more 
than this can you give me ? I have all now 
praise be to your holy name.” 


102 


She then received the sacrament of Extreme 
Unction; and this last sacred rite being termin- 
ated the priest beckoned all to leave the room, 
saying in a low voice, as he himself retired — 
“ We shall leave you alone for a little while, 
my dear child, so that you may, undisturbed, 
offer yourself up to God, and thank Him for 
liis adorable goodness to you and all mankind.” 

The door that communicated with the kit- 
chen had been left open, so that Mrs. Watkins 
from the place where she sat had had a full 
view of the scene passing •w'ithin, and now 
when the priest took a seat in the kitchen, she 
said to him rather abruptly : 

“ What a strange religion is yours, sir — who 
could ever dream that a huge system of super- 
stition and meaningless ceremony like the 
Church of Rome should have power to bestow 
such consolation at the final moment — surely 
that woman seems to meet death with joy ra- 
ther than terror.” 

The priest smiled. “ It is even so, my good 
lady, — that faithful soul has no fear of death — 
and were you better acquainted with our holy 
Church, you, too, would find her the mother 
of all consolation — being, as she is, the divine 
spouse of Christ, and by Him chosen to trans- 
mit to His children the joy which passeth all tin- 
derstanding. But, Mrs. O’ Grady, you had 


103 


bettor stay in the room with Mrs. Burke, and 
give her a table-spoonful of wine occasionally. 
You will let me know when she wishes us to 
enter.” 

The conversation was then renewed in a_low 
voice, and went on uninterruptedly till Mrs. 
O’ Grady made her appearance, and announced 
that Mrs. Burke wanted to see his reverence 
for a moment. When the priest entered the 
room he took each of the little girls by the 
hand — Peter and Willy followed, w'hile Mrs. 
Watkins muttered as she moved after them — 
“Strange that I have been talking so long with 
a Romish priest, without having been able to 
convince him of error, in a single point. — 
Really, I know not how it is that they can 
put every thing they believe and teach in so 
fair a point of view, notwithstanding the in- 
trinsic malice and the exceeding foulness of 
their doctrines.” 

• The priest was struck, as he drew' near the 
bed, by the increased paleness of the sick wo- 
man — her eyes, too, wore dimmer and deeper 
sunken in their sockets, and when she spoke 
there was a hollow and ringing sound in her 
voice which boded not good. Besides her 
breathing was accompanied by that rattling in 
the throat callled by the Irish “ the death rat- 
tle” — all denoted the near approach of the 
dread summoner. 


104 


“I jist wanted to see your reverenee an’ 
the ehildhren here, so that I might give them 
up to your care before I leave this world. The 
boys are, thank God, able to earn their own 
livin’, an even poor Ally an’ Biddy can do little 
turns for any good Christian that ’ill keep them 
for God’s sake. I don’t care. Father Fizther- 
hert, how hard any o’ them has to work, for 
no Christian ’ill put them to what’s beyant 
their strength, so as they’re with them that ’ill 
give them good example, an’ bring them up 
in the love an’ fear o’ God. Oh, your rever- 
ence, if I could only know that they’d all be 
under the care of good, pious Catholics, an’ 
that they’d persevere to the end of their lives 
in the old faith that all their generations be- 
fore them lived an’ died in.” 

“ I am truly rejoiced, my dear child,” said 
the priest, “ that it is in my pow'er to make 
your mind at case on that head. I have been 
speaking with a worthy woman who carries pn 
the straw-bonnet business pretty extensively, 
and she has voluntarily proposed to take your 
dear little girls and bring them up to her own 
business, while at the same time she will see 
that their education — and above all their reli- 
gious education — be not neglected. She has 
no children of her own, and willingly under- 
takes to bring up your girls, for the pure love 


105 


of God, being herself a true and sincere Chris- 
tian. As to Willy — I have arranged with a 
very respectable house to receive him as mes- 
senger in their store, and if he is found trust- 
worthy (as I hope he will) they have promis- 
ed to promote him. Meanwhile he is to attend 
an evening school, and he can have at all times 
free access to my library, so as to emjiloy his 
leisure horn’s in useful reading.” 

Mrs. Burke raised her hands and eyes to 
heaven — her heart was too full for verbal ut- 
terance, but after a little she found voice to 
thank Father Fitzherbcrt for his truly paternal 
care of her children. “ Sure your reverence 
has done for them what I could’nt do — a poor, 
lone woman like me, that nobody here knew ; 
but Pether, sir, what are we goin’ to do with 
him, for he’s more throuble to me than all 
the rest r” 

“My dear Mrs. Burke,” said Mrs. Watkins, 
wi^ her soft, insinuating voice, “ you have no 
need to trouble yourself about Peter — Mr. 
Watlyns is fully determined to provide for 
him.” 

“ ilr. Watkins an’ you are both very good, 
ma’am, an’ may God reward you — but I hope 
it’s no offence to tell you that I can’t let Pe- 
ther, or any of my childhren stay mth any 
but Catholics. I could’nt die in peace, Mrs* 


106 


Watkins, indeed I could’ nt, if I thought any 
o’ these'poor orphans that I’m leavin’ ’id be in 
the way of losin’ their faith. What do you 
say, Pether ? — would’ nt you rather be among 
Catholics, asthore machree ?” 

“Whatever you an’ Father Fitzherbert likes, 
mother,” retm-ned the weeping boy, “ I’ll be 
said an’ led by you an’ him, please God Al- 
mighty.” 

“ In that case,” Peter, said the priest, “ I 
know that I can got you into the same house 
wich your brother — your salary may be small 
at first, but you will have many counter-ba- 
lancing advantages.” 

“ Well, sir, as you an’ mother wishes it. I’ll 
agree,though I’m sorry to leave Mr. Watkins’s, 
where I was as well treated as if I was their 
own child.” 

“ The Lord be praised, — I can die content- 
ed !” murmured the dying woman — “ but, 
Mrs. O’ Grady, I want to spake a worjf to 
you.” 

“What is it, Mrs. Burke?” said her kind 
nurse, and her tears fell fast as she bent over 
her patient, so as to catch her low tones. 

“There’s a little tobacco-box of poor Andy’s 
in one corner of that big chest within — Willy 
can get it for you — an’ you’ll get a sovereign 
iu it — it’s the last of the money we brought 


107 


from home, an’ I always kept it for a pinch — 
that’ll pay you what rint I owe you — I think 
it’s four dollars — is’nt it ?” 

“Soria penny of it ever I’ll take, Mrs. 
Burke,” cried her generous landlady with 
characteristic vehemence — “ that sovereign 
will bury you dacently, an’ I can do without 
it. No, no, — I’m a poor woman, but while 
God spares my husband and son their health 
I can get along vdthout the little penny you 
owed me. So 1 pray God to cancel the debt, 
as I do from my heart.” 

Overpowered by the excess of her gratitude, 
the dying woman could only grasp the friendly 
hand held out to her, and raise her failing eyes 
to heaven, invoking a blessing on her benefac- 
tress. She spoke not again for several mo- 
ments, during which the rattling in her throat 
was fearfully increasing. Raising her feeble 
hand she made a sign for her children to ap- 
proach — the priest placed them all on their 
knees beside the bed, and by a mighty effort 
the dying mother found voice to bless them. 

“ Be good children,” she added, “ be good 
men an’ women — an’ ever an’ alwayafear God 
more than men — listen to the voice of his 
church — live an’ die good Catholics — an’ we’ll 
meet again — in glory.” There, don’t cry that 
way — it’s no use — but pray for me. God bless 


108 


ye all.” She signed to Father Fitzherbert to 
put the crucifix in her right hand — he did so, 
and with a smile of ineffable joy, the pure 
soul, purified by all manner of earthly suffer- 
ing, well and cheerfully borne, passed away — 
and eyes were still upraised, and the lips in the 
act of praising God, when lip and eye were 
fixed in death. 

‘‘ May that God whom you so faithfully 
served receive your liberated soul into the 
mansions of rest,” said the priest solemnl)% 
and by a gesture full of grave dignity, he si- 
lenced the lamentations of the orphans — now 
orphans in reality — then kneeling he recited 
aloud the prayers for the dead, in which all 
present joined, with the exception of Mrs. 
Watkins. The good lady was just begimring 
to wax impatient when a foot was heard on the 
staircase, and her husband made his appear- 
ance, to her very great satisfaction. No notice 
was taken of either by those who, absorbed in 
devotion, were supplicating the Most High for 
mercy on behalf of “ the parted soul” — so 
without a word being spoken, Mrs. Watkins 
beckoned her husband from the room, and in 
an instant they were seated in their carriage. 

Death is ever awful : but how fearfully 
drear it becomes w'hen it deprives a whole fa- 
mily of a tender parent — an only parent. — 


109 


When wrenching away that last great bond 
of unity, it leaves the little community with- 
out a head, without a centre — lonely and de- 
tached units in the great human assembly. It 
was a melancholy sight to see the four children 
of Mrs. Burke, clinging around the bed where- 
on lay their dead mother — vainly calling on 
her who could no longer hear, and beseeching 
her to speak but a word — vain — vain their 
cries — when was ''the dull, cold ear of death” y 
ever reached or opened by human voice ? — 
Tor some time none of them could think of 
any thing— ^the one pervading image filled the 
mind of each — their mother was dead — and 
they were now orphans in very deed. After 
a little Willy raised his head from the side of 
the bed where it had been resting, and looking 
around on his brother and sisters, he said, with 
an attempt at calmness — “ It was bad enough 
when poor father died, an’ was thrown into 
the sea, but then we did’nt half know our loss, 
an’ besides we had our mother still — so we 
were’nt so badly off — but mow” — here his 
forced composure deserted him, for one glance 
at the dead face of his mother had subdued his 
little self-control, and when the others biurst 
out again into tears and lamentations, him- 
self wept and sobbed as loudly as either of 
his little sisters. Hitherto Bather Fitzher- 


110 


bert had remained kneeling at the foot of 
the bed in silent prayer, deeming it best to let 
the grief of the children exhaust its first vio- 
lence, but now he arose, and coming calmly 
forward took each by the hand in silence and 
led them from the room, without the slightest 
opposition on their part. When once in the 
kitchen^he said to them : 

“ You must now stay out of the room, my 
dear children ! while Mrs. O’ Grady performs 
the necessary duties for the dead. I would 
advise you to go down stairs for a little while!” 

Mrs. O’ Grady, who had been kneeling just 
within the room-door, now came forward and 
aimounced that^ she , would go for a “neigh- 
bour woman” to help her to wash and lay 
out the corpse, and insisted that the children 
should go down stairs, as the priest had pro- 
posed. Their obedience to the clergy was hab- 
itual, and they therefore, went down with Mrs. 
O’ Grady, whQe Father Fitzherbert remained 
to close the mouth and eyes of the deceased, 
and offer up yet another prayer for her eternal 
repose. When the women entered, and pre- 
pared to commence their sad taisk, he with- 
drew, promising to return next morning to 
see the children. 

'fhe corpse was at length laid out in decent 
order, attired in the brown habit of the confra- 


. Ill 


ternity of our Lady, (which habit had been 
long ready for the occasion, as is usual with 
the members of that society) with a cross of 
brown ribbon laid outside the clothes on her 
bosom, and the little wooden crucifix the same 
which had fixed the dying gaze of her hus- 
band, suspended on the wall at her head. 
The*^ the children were again admitted and 
several of the neighbours coming in, Mrs. O’- 
Grady proposed that first of all they should say 
the Litany for the Dead. This pious duty 
performed, the remainder of the night passed 
away in conversation, which borrowing its 
tone from the occasion, was of a serious and 
grave character. The two little girls had been 
prevailed upon to go to bed about mid- 
night, and much pains were taken to console 
the two young brothers — many a kind advice 
was given them, and more than one friendly 
offer of assistance. Both were too much ab- 
sorbed in their grief to pay any great attention 
to these well-meant attempts at consolation 
and they were sensibly relieved when the 
light of morning called the greater number of 
those present to their homes, to commence the 
labors of the day. It w'as only from Father 
Fitzherbert’s promised visit that they expected, 
or received consolation, and his entrance gave 
them a gleam of comfort which the mild, and 


112 


tender, and pious counsels he gave them tended 
considerably to increase. He it was who re- 
presented in clear and forcible terms to their 
sorrowing minds that as far as their mother 
was herself concerned they had only reason 
to rejoice in her death, as death to her, was 
but a transition from toil and suffering, and 
all the privations of poverty to the happy 
eternity where the saints reign with God. 
Then he made them understand that such be- 
ing the case, their own selfish sorrow must not 
be indulged — “ you have duties before you,” 
said he, “ which must be fulfilled — duties to 
God, to yourselves, and to societ}’’, and to these 
you must at once apply yourselves, casting off 
that vain and idle despondency which, how- 
ever natural it may be in its origin, would un- 
doubtedly unfit you for active and energetic 
application to the fulfilment of the duties to 
which I have referred.” 

Thus did he wisely and judiciously lead the 
brothers to a more salutary way of tlrinking, 
and prepare them for the devious journey of 
life for which they might be now said to en- 
ter for the first time. They still wept and sor- 
rowed for the mother who had loved them so 
tenderly, but it was no longer with that wild, 
ungovernable grief which had at first swallow- 
ed up every rational idea, and precluded all 
hope of comfort. 


113 


The day of burial came, and Father Pitz- 
herbert offered up the holy sacrifice early in 
the morning, that God might receive the soul of 
his departed servant. It was a touching specta- 
cle to see the two boys, the eldest but fifteen, 
following to the grave the remains of their on- 
ly parent — each holding by the hand one of 
their young sisters. The brothers restrained 
the violence of their sorrow as they moved 
along after the hearse, but the little girls sob- 
b'^d and cried all the way, though continually 
reminded by. their brothers that. they should 
endeavor to be quiet while passing along the 
streets. Besides the O’ Grady’s, there were on- 
ly a few others who followed the hearse, for 
the deceased had had but few acquaintances, and 
she was poor — very poor — ay, and far away 
from the place where she and hers were known 
and honored. So they laid her in her “ nar- 
row house,” with none by to mourn her but 
the desolate orphans who stood conversing to- 
gether at the head of the grave. 


CHAPTER VI. 

THE BROTHERS IN THEIR NEW SITUATION. 

It was Thursday when the remains of Wid- 
ow Burke wore laid in their resting place, and 

Father Fitzherbert, in his prudent kindness, 

H 


114 


advised the two boys to go on Saturday to the 
house of Mr. Talbot, their new employer. “ It 
will divert your minds,” said he, “ from the 
gloomy thoughts by which they are now oc- 
cupied, and also by making your arrangements 
on Saturday, you will be able to enter on your 
respective duties in the beginning of the week. 
I myself wdll now conduct your little sisters to 
their destination, where I have every hope 
that they mil find a comfortable homo. Have 
you any matters to arrange with Mrs. O’ Gra- 
dy?” 

“No, your reverence,” said Willy, his bro- 
ther, mindful of his past weakness,? being evi- 
dently embarrassed when in the priest’s pre- 
sence. “We wanted her this morning to take 
some good clothes of my poor father’s that’s 
there in the chest abroad,an’ see if she couldn’t 
make something of them, in part of W'hat my 
mother owed her, but she wouldn’t consent to 
take any thing at all, because she said she had 
cancelled the debt altogether. We’re goin’ to 
leave them in the chest here, for Mrs. O’Gra- 
dy says she’ll make room for it below stairs ; 
•wo wouldn’t wish to part with any of the 
clothes, sir, (unless it was to pay my mother’s 
little debt) because it’ll do us good to look at 
them now an’^ then ; sure we have notliing else 
to put us in mind cf them that’s gone. lily 


115 


poor mother hadn’t any thing that 'id be of 
use to any body, for her clothes were all worn 
out a’most’, but we have her shawl an’ bonnet, 
an’ some other little things that she used to 
wear locked up Avith the rest he stopped 
suddenly, overcome by his emotion, while Pe- 
ter and the little girls burst into tears. The 
good priest, although his own eyes bore wit- 
ness of his sympathy, yet thought it time to 
put a stop to this, and therefore desired them 
all to prepare for their departure. They de- 
scended the stairs in silent sorrow,the children 
turning several times to take a last look of the 
now deserted dwelling. When they had reach- 
ed the foot of the stairs, where a short passage 
led to Mrs. O’Grady’s apartments, Willy ask- 
ed the priest whether they might not step in 
to say “farewell,” and Father Fitzherbert, 
having nodded assent, the whole four hastened 
away, while the priest himself walked slowly 
after them. He was just in time to witness 
the parting, and heard them toll Mrs. O’ Gra- 
dy with innocent exultation, that they had 
each some “token” of their poor mother. 

“ Look here, Mrs. O’Grady !” said Ally, the 
eldest girl, “ sure I have mother’s beads,” 
drawing them from her bosom as she spoke, 
“ an’ plase God, I’ll say my prayers on them 
night an’ morning. 


116 


“An’ I have something too, so I have !” 
cried Biddy, the youngest, holding up a pair 
of scissors. “I have mammy’s scissors,’’ and 
she kissed them with childish fondness. 

“ Well, then,” said Peter, “since ye'ro all 
shewing your keepsakes, I have the best of all, 
for I have got her prayer book, an’ it was fa- 
ther’s too !” 

“ An’ what have you, Willy ? You’re sayin’ 
nothing, poor fellow!” said Mrs. O'Grady, 
smiling through her tears, as she turned to the 
silent boy. 

“ Indeed,” was Willy’s repl}', “ I wouldn’t 
part my keepsake for all the riches in New 
York ; here it is, — the crucifix that my father 
had in his hand when he was dyin,’ an’ my 
mother too. I hope in God it’ll lie on my own 
breast when I’m dead !” 

“Well! the Lord’s blessin’ be about yees 
all, childhren dear ! wherever ye go !” said 
Mrs. O’Grady with genuine fervor, “an’ its my 
prayer from my heart out, that God may keep 
yees all from hurt or harm, for its yerselvcs 
that’s the quiet, mannerly children, an’ ye 
ought to have luck ! Go now, poor things ! 
for I see his reverence is waitin’ for you, an’ 
I’m rale sorry that there’s none o’ my ones 
within. But sure ye’ll come often to see us. 
Do, an’ God bless j*e, for ye may be sure ye’ll 
never some without bein’ welcome.” 


117 


A few minutes’ walk brought Father Fitz- 
herbert and his young proteges to the house of 
the good lady, who had agreed to take the lit- 
tle girls; and she received them with so kind 
a welcome, that notwithstanding their natural 
timidity, and the sorrow they felt on parting 
with their brothers, they yet appeared quite 
reconciled to stay with Mrs. Williams, only 
begging of Willy and Peter as they followed 
them to the door, that they would come soon 
to see them. The boys, on their part, were 
much affected, and the eyes of both were fill- 
ed with tears, just as they emerged from 
the narrow street in which Mrs. Williams’s 
shop was situated. The priest w'ho walked 
immediately before them, was accosted by a 
cheerful voice from the opposite trottoir, and a 
gentleman instantly crossed the street. Father 
Fitzherbert stopped, and said with a smile, “ I 
am verj' glad to meet you Just now, Mr. Talbot! 
as it saves mo the necessity of going to your 
house, and I am rather limited in time this 
forenoon,having promised to bo at the Bishop’s 
at half-past eleven. These are the boys of 
whom I told you !” 

“ Oh, indeed 1” said Mr. Talbot,as he glanc- 
ed at the brothers, “ in that case, I think you 
had better leave them at once to me, — the bu- 
siness on which I was going when I met you. 


118 


can be easily postponed, and as Mr. Weimar 
is in no very good humor this morning, it will 
be just as well for you to keep out of sight, as 
I need not tell you how prejudiced he is against 
priests in general. But how is this. Father 
Fitzherbert ?” he added quickly, — “ these lads 
appear as though they had been weeping ?” 

“ And so they have, my good sir ! but that 
is nothing surprising, for they have just parted 
from their orphan sisters, and the parting has, 
as you can well imagine, renewed the memory 
of their grievous loss.” 

Mr. Talbot then addressed the brothers in a 
kindly tone, desiring them to go with him, that 
he might introduce them to his partner, where- 
upon Father Fitzherbert bowed, and turned 
away in an opposite direction, first saying with 
a smile, “ I have no fear but that you will do 
what you can for them. Good bye, my boys ! 
I shall see you very soon again, w’ith God’s 
help !” 

During their walk, Mr. Talbot put various 
questif ns to the boys, tending to draw out their 
respective characters, and he was not slow in 
perceiving that the younger brother had many 
mental advantages, although but little indebt- 
ed to education. By the time they arrived at 
his place of business, his interest w'as' strongly 
excited, so that even without the earnest re- 


119 


commendation of the priest, he would have 
done his utmost for the friendless youths. At 
length they stopped at a wholesale and retail 
hardware store in one of those narrow and 
dark streets which monopolise in New York, 
as in most other commercial cities, the greatest 
amount of the wholesale trade. Having dived 
into the further recesses of the place, without 
eliciting more than a passing glance from the 
numerous sallow-faced young men, varying in 
ago from sixteen to twenty, who were employ- 
ed as clerks and helpers in the concern, Mr. 
Talbot led the young Burkes to a desk in are- 
mote corner, whore an old man was poring 
over books and papers. One small window, ^ 
thickly incrusted with dust, and looking out 
on a close, narrow yard, threw a sickly light 
on the desk with its ponderous ledgers and 
journals, and on the pale, withered face, and 
thin gray locks of the merchant, with his snuff- 
colored, and high-collared coat, buttoned up 
to the very extremity of the long, sharp chin. 
He was seated on a high office-stool, and bent 
with engrossed attention over his desk. 

“ Well ! I’ve been to Chambers’s and also to 
Black’s,” said Mr. Talbot, “ and neither of them 
has heard any thing of the Sally Ann,— there 
is, however, a strong probability that she may 


120 


get in to-night, aa the nfind has veered consid- 
erably since I went out.” 

“ Ay ! there’s always a chance, — to be sure 
dere is, “ said the old man, somewhat snap- 
pishly, and without raising his head, “ you be 
always lookin’ out for chances. I tell you 
what, I think de Sally Ann is gone to de bot- 
tom ! but did you see dat oder man about de 
note, — vat you call him — Lumley, eh ?” 

“ No, I was just on my way to call upon him 
when I chanced to meet this young lad of 
whom I told you yesterday, and as he could 
not possibly have found out the store,I thought 
it best to come back with him.” 

Weimar raised his head quickly, and darted 
a keen glance at Willy, who chanced to be 
standing next him, but seeing thattliere were 
two, he said, shai-ply to Talbot, — “ vat de dee- 
vil, dere be two ?” 

“Even so, Mr. Weimai',” replied the other, 
“ I have since learned that there are two of 
these boys looking out for situations, and as 
we can employ both just now, 1 have brought 
them for your inspection. Neither will look 
for high wages, — in fact very moderate pay 
will suffice for a time, as they have no great 
knowledge of business.” 

“ And vat for have dem here, den ?” inter- 


121 


rupted Weimar querulously, “vat good deybe 
to us, — tell me dat, eh.?” 

“ Why, as to that,” said Talbot, “ they both 
seem smart and intelligent, and for the rest, 
being anxious to learn, they cannot fail to 
make themselves exceedingly useful. Then 
they are orphans, and have therefore a double 
claim on all Christians.” 

“ Oh, ay ! orphans — vere you find all do 
orphans you bring in ? — dere be al^s ays some 
orphan in de way.” This was said in a pettish 
tone, and Mr. Talbot smiled — but his smile 
was a melancholy one — as ho replied : 

“ And that is nothing surprising, my dear 
sir — none knows better than yourself, that I, 
too, was thrown an orphan on the wide world 
— I was just about the age of the younger of 
those boys, when a certain person who shall be 
jiow nameless took me into employment, and 
he has been often good enough to say that he 
had never repented the act. ^Vhat say you, 
Mr. Weimar ?” 

Somewhat softened by this judicious liint, 
the old man coughed and wriggled on his seat 
— he was fain to comply with his partner’s re- 
quest, and yet he could not easily bring him- 
self to say as much. 

“ If all de orphan boys were like you, Tal- 
bot, it vould do veil enough, but — umph — 
which dese boys de one you promised for ?” 


122 


“ The younger of the two, Mr. Weimer.” 

“ Veil ! you oder boy — vat you can do ?” he 
said, addressing Peter. 

“ Sir, I have been in two places since I came 
to New York. I was goin’ errands first for 
Mr. Miller ” 

“ Vat — MiL'er in John street, eh 

“ Yes sir.” 

“ Humph — dat is good — vat de oder place, 
eh?” 

“ Mr. Watkins, sir, — he lives in Henry st.” 

“ Vat you do dere — you not clerk, eh ?” 

“No, sir, I used to be cleanin’ out the office, 
sir, an’ makin’ fires, an’ I used to go messages 
there, too. An’ Mrs. Watkins had me goin’ 
to school, sir.” 

“ Oh den you not so bad — ve’ll try de two, 
Mr. Talbot. You put dem to vork right off — 
lose no time, eh ?” 

“ No, no,” said Talbot, with his benevolent 
smile, “ I shall give them in charge to Saun- 
ders, and you know he will keep them to work. 
I thank you for makin’ good my promise, and 
I do hope we shall find the lads trust- worthy 
and attentive to business. Come now, boys, 
till I make you acquainted with Mr. Saunders, 
who is to bo your tutor for some time to 
come.” Turning back, he said to Weimar — 


123 


“ I shall go immediately about that note — I 
believe the man’s name is Moreton.” 

“ Ay do, Talbot, and be sure you tell him 
dat de matter vill be put at once in de lawyer’s 
hands, if he not pay to-morrow forenoon.” 
Talbot nodded, and the old German bent again 
over his books, as wrapped up in their con- 
tents apparently, as though no interruption 
had taken place. 

“Now, Willy,” said Mr. Talbot, as they 
proceeded by a long dark passage to find the 
^ head clerk in the retail store ; “ you sec I have 
said nothing of the i)riest,for Mr. Weimar cannot 
bear to hear them mentioned — though I my- 
self am a Catholic, as he well knows — neither 
have I said anything of your going to night- 
school, or of where you are to board, but all 
that is easily arranged. We rent a house close 
by here, for the convenience of boarding our 
young men, and when the stores are closed 
this evening I shall introduce you to Mrs. Mal- 
combe, the old housekeeper. But here is Mr. ^ 
Saunders.” He then presented the brothers 
to the w’orthy Scotchman, who had the chief 
management in the concern, and having seen 
them duly set to work, lie said with a smile, 
“ Good bye, then, for the present, — I hope to 
hear a good account of my ‘proteges from Mr. 
Saunders.” And he hastened away. 


124 


The day passed away, tediously enough, to 
Peter and Willy, for there were strange faces 
all around them, and even the accents that fell 
upon their ear were strange, for it chanced that 
they were the only Irish boys in the establish- 
ment. Late in the aftereoon ISIr. Weimar en- 
tered the store-room where Willy w'as engaged 
in burnishing up some things rmder the super- 
intendence of Saunders. 

“ Vere de oder broder, Saunders r” 

“I have sent him^with a parcel, sir, to Nas- 
sau St., — he knows the localities around here 
better than^I expected.” 

“Veil, vat you tink? dey worth keeping, 
eh?” This was said in rather a low tone. — 
“ Talbot often mistaken — he too soft — dat cer- 
tain.” 

“ Well,'8ir,” said Saunders, in the same low 
tone, “ I do not think Mr. Talbot’s judgment 
is now at fault, for I am inclined to believe 
that ‘these lads are both intelligent ^and trust- 
worthy. I like them very well for so far.” 

“ Ha ! dat* good — very good.” Then raising 
his voice he f said’ to Willy, “I say, you boy 
dero — vat your name ?” 

“ William Burke, sir.” 

“ You Irish, eh ? — and Cath’lic, I be sure ?” 

“ Yes sir,” was Willy’s reply. 

“ Ay, ay, — it always de same, Saunders. — 


Some priest get Talbot take dese boys. Who 
ask him take you, my good lad ?” 

“ Father Fitzherbcrt, sir,” 

"Dere now,” said Weimar, nodding his 
head significantly at Saunders, “I tell you so. 
Now listen, boy — you noting better of de 
priest’s word for me — me no tink mooch of 
priests — but you be good boy — mind vat 
Saunders say to you, and be honest, and you 
do veil here. Tell ds same your broder. Say 
old Mr, Weimar no care for Fader dis or Fader 
dat, but he like honest boys dat do deir vork 
veil, and he pay dem veil, too.” 

Willy made a low^bow as the old man passed 
him, and promised to do his utmost to deserve 
his good opinion. Applying himself with re- 
newed attention to his work, he acquitted 
himself of his task to the entire satisfaction 
of the Scotchman. 

“ So passed the day — the evening fell,” 

And punctual to his promise, came Mr. Tal- 
bot. It was with sincere pleasure he heard so 
good a report of the boys from Saunders, and 
the encouraging kindness of his tone fell like 
dew on their lonely hearts. The establishment 
being at length closed, he took them to the 
house appointed for the employees of the con- 
cern, and consigned them to the care of Mrs, 
Malcolm, tho old Scotch housekeeper, com- 


126 


mending them at the same time to her espe- 
cial protection, “ for,” said he, in a low voice, 

“ they are orphans, and Catholics.” 

“ Verra Weel, sir,” said the old dame, 
speaking in broad lowland Scotch, “ be sure 
I’ll have a watch o’er the lads — they may 
thank God, any how, for bringin’ them under 
your care.” This w'as said more to the bro- 
thers, as they followed Mrs. Malcolm, who 
walked before with a lighted candle in her 
hand. 

kir. Talbot, before he loft the hall, remind- 
ed Peter and Willy that the church was quite 
near. “ And to-morrow being Sunday,” said 
he, “ you can go there with Mrs. Malcolm, 
who is also a Catholic,” he added, w'ith a 
cheerful smile. “ You see you have an advan- 
take here over the othgrs, who are all Protes- 
tants of various sects. Good night, my boys ; 
I need not tell you that you can dispose of to- 
morrow as you please.” 

Mr. Talbot then withdrew, and the brothers 
followed their conductress into an eating-room 
where the greater number of the young men 
were already assembled for supper. In the 
course of the evening the new comers made 
considerable progress in the good graces of 
their companions. Peter, especially, won 
their favor, for he, being more lively and vo- 


latile than his brother, was less under the do- 
minion of grief, and thus it happened that 
while Willy was sad and silent — weighed 
down by the abiding thought of his recent 
loss, — Peter, on the other hand, catching the 
inspiration of laugh and jest, soon laughed 
and jested the merriest of all. He had loved 
his mother with the warmest affection, and 
when alone with his brother, still mourned 
her sincerely, but for him mirth was conta- 
gious — his mind, less deep and less solid than 
that of Willy, received an immediate impress 
from surrounding influence. 

The evening passed over, and good Mrs. 
Malcolm shewed the brothers to the small 
room where both were to sleep, telling them 
that breakfast would be ready by eight 
o’clock — being an hour later on Sundays. — 
"WTien left alone, the boys sat for awhile talk- 
ing over their present prospects, and lajing 
dowm various little plans for the future, then 
having agreed that they w’ould go next day to 
visit their mother’s grave, and also to see their 
sisters, they knelt and said their night prayers. 
Willy then proposed that they should say the 
Litany of the Blessed Virgin, and his brother 
assenting, they commenced, but had scarcely 
gone half way through when a loud burst of 
laughter from the passage without the door 


128 - 


made both start. Pausing for a moment, they 
heard one of the young men calling to some 
of the others — “ Why, do come here ! — just 
listen to the Burkes — they are actually pray- 
ing away as if they were two old women — and 
to the Virgin, I protest.!” And then the sound 
of advancing footsteps was heard, and it seem- 
ed as though several persons were listening 
around the door. A crimson glow overspread 
Willy’s cheek — it was the glow of indignation 
— but making a violent effort to subdue his an- 
ger, he resumed the Litany, as though nothing 
had happened. Again the laugh was raised 
outside, and Peter got up from his kneeling 
posture, saying in a low voice, “ Don’t you 
hear them makin’ game of us — let it alone, I 
tell you.” 

But Willy, without heeding his remon- 
strance, went steadily on with his prayer, nor 
stopped till he had reached the conclusion. — 
Then he stood up and quietly began to prepare 
for bed. 

“ "Why, what in the world,” said Peter, 
“made you go on when you heard them laugh- 
in’ at us, that way ; sure you’re the quarest 
fellow ever I seen.” 

“I’ll jist tell you, Peter, why I went on,” 
returned Willy, and he spoke rather louder 
than usual, having a suspicion that some of the 


129 


listeners were still lingering in the passage. — 
“Did’nt you often hear my mother, an’ the priest 
himself say that we ought never to be afraid or 
ashamed to say our prayers. "What for wotild 
we be ashamed of prayin’ to the Blessed Mo- 
ther o’ God to intercede for us, an’ when wo 
know wer’e doin’ only what’s right, I would’nt 
care if they were laughin’ at us till this time 
the morrow night. Jist let them laugh away, 
an’ when they find that we disregard their 
laughin’, then I suppose they’ll soon tire. Let 
us go to bed now in the name of God.” 

Next morning at breakfast there was not the. 
slightest allusion to what had passed the night 
before ; the presence of Mrs. Malcolm making 
the scoffers fear to ridicule the young Catho- 
lics. Even when the housekeeper left the 
room, not a word was spoken on the subject ; 
but from the signs exchanged, and the sly de- 
risive glances directed at the brothers — the 
younger in particular — it was evident enough 
that the under current of ridicule was going 
on. More than once did Willy observe some 
one of the young men raising his hands and 
eyes to heaven, with so ludicrous an air of 
mock devotion that himself could scarce re- 
frain from joining in the laugh that followed. 
Ttien another would strike his breast with his 
clenched hand, and murmur some one of the 

I 


130 


phrases of the Litany, which he had heard the 
night before. The repeated bursts of laughter 
which these derisive tricks called forth, over- 
w'helmed Peter with shame, and although it 
was yet considerably before the time for grand 
Mass, yet seeing his brother’s confusion, Willy 
said to him, “ I think it’s time to go to church, 
Peter : we know the way ourselves, an’ we 
nced’nt wait for Mrs. Malcolm. Arc you rea- 
dy to come r” Peter got up in silence, and 
reached for his cap. 

“ I say Hamilton,” said one of the y'ounger 
clerks aloud, “ are’nt you for church this morn- 
ing ? The weather is very tempting.” 

“Not I, faith,” was the prompt rejoinder — 
“ I’m for Staten Island — catch me in a church 
such a morning as this. Come, get ready — 
who’s for the water ? We’ll have a gloriotis 
sail ; and you know we can say the Litany up 
stairs to-night.” ITien turning to the Purkes 
as they left the room, without seeming to no- 
tice his ironical hint — “ You’ll say an extra 
jtattr and ave for us, won’t you, my lands’?’ 

“ We’ll pray for all sinners — if that’ll do ye,” 
said Willy, -with a tartness little usual to him, 
as putting on his cap in the hall, he reached to 
open the door. 

A general laugh followed this repartee. — 
“ There now, Hamilton, you’ve got it, eh ? — 


131 


hav’nt yoti ? — the lad’s not so foolish after all.” 
And as the boys descended the steps from the 
door they still heard the merry clatter of 
tongues within. 

When Mass was over, the brothers went 
together to see their sisters, and if they had 
not met for years, the little girls could not 
have been more rejoiced It Avas with glad 
and grateful hearts that Peter and Willy heard 
the artless praise wherewith the children spoke 
of their benefactress, who, it appeared, was a 
woman of rare benevolence. “ An’ sure she’s 
gettin’ us nice black dresses made, for she says 
we ought to have mom-nin’ for poor mother,” 
said little Bridget, while her sister caught up 
the words with, “ an’ it ’id do ye good to hear 
her how she advises us — an’ she gets us to tell 
her everything about poor father an’ mother, 
an’ then the tears ’ill be standin’ in her eyes 
an’ she’ll tell us that we ought to be thankful 
to God for havin’ given us such parents, an’ 
she makes us pray for them every night an’ 
morn in’. ” 

This account was truly welcome to the bro- 
thers, and before they left they made it a point 
to see the good lady, and thank her for her 
almost unexampled kindness to their orphan 

sisters. Mrs. then inquired how they 

liked their own situation, and was much pleas- 


132 


cd by 'Willy’s account of Mr. Talbot. She was 
glad to hear, too, that the housekeeper where 
they boarded was a Catholic,and took occasion 
to warn them that they must not suffer them- 
selves to be deterred from performing any duty 
of religion, how trifling soever in itself, by the 
covert sneers or open ridicule of ther compan- 
ions. “ Always. remember,” said she, “ that 
you, as Catholics, stand on a high vantage- 
ground, over all other religious persuasions, 
and as you love your own souls, see that you 
never forget this fact. Let the heretic and 
the schismatic scoff as they will, — heed not 
their jeers — it is their misfortune to be without 
the pale of the church, and it is our duty to 
pray that the good shepherd may take pity 
upon them, and bring them in !” 

Willy saw with no small pleasure that his 
brother seemed deeply attentive to this kind 
admonition, which he therefore, hoped might 
produce a good effect upon his mind, so here- 
by susceptible of any thing like ridicule. “We’re 
goin’ ma’am,” said Willy, “ to see our mother’s 
grave, an’ if you’d be good enough to let Ally 
an’ Biddy come wdth us, we’d thank you very 
much.” “They may go, and welcome,” said 
Mrs. Williams, “ although I did not intend 
that they should go out more than was abso- 
lutely necessar)’-, until their mourning is ready 


133 


for them, as their clothes, poor dears ! are none 
of the best. But this is a duty of affection, a 
pious duty it is too, and I will not refuse my 
consent. You will, of course, sec them homo 
again as they might easily go astray in this 
huge city of ours !” “ Oh, certainly ma’am,” 

said Peter, “ an’ we’re much obliged to you 
for givin’ them leave to come. 

About half an hour’s walk brought our 
young pilgrims of love" to the churchyard, and 
with streaming eyes they knelt around the 
grave, which they could not easily have recog- 
nised had not Willy luckily noticed its posi- 
tion with regard to the gate. Piously and fer- 
vently did they all offer up their prayers for 
the repose of their mother’s soul, and as they 
bent with clasped hands and bowed head 
around the holy grave, they could be no more 
touching illustration of the beautiful doctrine of 
the church, the never-ending communion,over 
which death holds no power. When they 
arose from their knees, Willy observed ^o his 
brother: “ Does’nt it do your heart good, 
Peter dear ! to come Jiere an’ pray for her 
soul ? It jist seems to me as if I had herself 
to talk to, an’ when I knelt on the grave where 
I seen her covered up, I can fancy that I hear 
her talkin’ to me as she used to do, an’ then I 
find myself uplifted above the world, an’ I say 


134 


to myself — ‘ Please God I’ll never do anything 
to disgrace her bones in the clay !’ Peter, on 
his part, declared his intention to come often, 
“ but,” said he, “ we ought to mark the grave 
some way or another, — or we’ll soon not be 
able to find it out.” 

“ I was thinkin’ of that too,” said his bro- 
ther, “ an’ next Sunday when we come, we’ll 
bring a long, sharp stone or a slate that we 
can stick down at the head, until such time as 
we can put a decent cross, or a head-stone 
over her — if God spares us, I hope we’ll soon 
be able to do that !” 

They now quitted the grave-yard, and hav- 
ing left their sisters “ at home,” the brothers 
returned to their new dwelling, where they 
found good Mrs, Malcolm awaiting their ap- 
pearance, as dinner had been some time ready, 
“ an,’ ” said she, “ there’s ne’er a one o’ these 
graceless chiels cornin’ back to dinner — they’re 
all sporting their figure down on Staten Is- 
land.” 


CHAPTER VII. 

THE FOURTH OP JULY— POCKET MONEY. 

Neither Father Fitzherbert nor Mr. Talbot 
had forgotten their engagement wdth regard to 
sending the brothers to school, and on the 


135 


Wednesday following they both went to an 
excellent evening school, whose teacher was 
in every respect qualified for the charge he 
held, being as conscientious in the discharge 
of his duty, as he was fully competent to ful- 
fil it. Father Fitzherbert had been mainly in- 
strumental in establishing this school for the 
instruction of boys who were unable to attend 
any day school, and it was his j)ractice to visit 
it at least once a w'eek, so as to examine the 
progress of the boys, and ascertain that no- 
thing was to be neglected that could possibly 
promote their improvement. 

It was Willy’s custom, moreover, to avail 
himself on Sunday evenings of Father Fitz- 
herbert’s kind permission to visit his library. 
The first time he went he prevailed on his bro- 
ther to accompany him, but Peter had no love 
for reading, still less for that solid and useful 
kind to which his brother, by the priest’s ad- 
vice, applied himself, and he could never be 
'brought to go again. “ Where’s the use,” ho 
said, “ of shuttin’ one’s self up there in a room 
over a book, the only evening in the w'eek 
that we have to ourselves ? An’ then such 
books as you read in it — if a body had a story- 
book, or something that way, it would’nt be so 
bad, — but, no, its the Lives of the Saints, a 
Bible History, an’ such things as them, that 


136 


Father Fitzherbert gives vis, an’ then Gobinet’s 
Instructions — the worst of all, for it’s only fit 
to make one dull an’ down-hearted.” 

“ Well, but, Peter,” said his brother, “ is’nt 
that the kind of readin’ we want, for it teaches 
us how to save our souls, and besides, how to 
live in this world. An’ then I’m sure if you 
want stories, the Lives of the Saints, and 
the History of the Bible are full of them — an’ 
they’re not like the stories that’s made up to 
amuse young people, for we know that they’re 
all true. Don’t we read just as wonderful 
things in them books that happened to God’s 
holy servants, as we can find anywhere at all. 
For my part, I’d rather read them than all the 
fairy tales and ghost stories that ever were put 
in books.” 

“ You can read them yourself then, Willy,” 
was the rejoinder, “ for I’ll not go any more 
to Father Fitzherbert’s. I’d rather have one 
leaf in that old book that Johnny O’Grady 
lent me — the “ Irish Rogues an’ Rapparees” — 
than all the big books in the library — so I’ll 
not go any more — that’s all about it !” 

“Well, Peter, I’m heart sorry to hear you 
say so,” said Willy, “ for I know you’re losin’ 
a chance that you may never have again.” 

“That’s my own concern, an’ not your’s,so I 
don’t want to hear any more about it,” was 


137 


Peter’s reply, and Willy said no more. But 
he had soon a more severe trial to meet, for it 
appeared that in Peter’s case, as it generally 
happens, the wilful rejection of any positive 
grace or divine favor was quickly followed by 
a grievous temptation which he had not 
strength to resist. One evening in the course 
of the week, following the conversation just 
related, when the brothers were on their way 
to the school, Peter suddenly said, “ You 
Would’ nt guess who I seen the day, Willy ?” 

“No, certainly,’’ said Willy, “I can’t ima- 
gine — was it any body from Ireland ?’’ 

“ Not so far as that,” returned Peter, with a 
laugh — “it was Mr. Watkins ?” 

“Mr. Watkins!” cried Willy — “an’ where 
did you see him ?” 

“ Sure, in his own office. Mr. Weimar sent 
me there with a letter, an’ you never seen any 
one in all your life gladder to see another than 
Mr. Watkins was to see me. He asked me all 
about how I’m gettin’ on, an’ he says I must 
come and see Mrs. Watkins, for that she often 
talks about me. So I’m goin’ there to-morrow 
evenin’ instead of goin’ to school. I go regular 
enough to school, an’ can take one while of an 
evenin’ to myself.” 

“ Well, I suppose it’s all right, Peter, for you 
to go to see Mrs. Watkins once in a while, be- 


133 


cause she was so good to you, but somehow or 
another I don’t like you to go when you ought 
to be at school — an’ besides, poor mother was 
so much afraid of your goin’ next or near 
them ” 

“Ay, she did’nt want me to live with them” 
— interrupted Peter — “ I know that very well 
— but she could’nt say anything again me goin’ 
to see a lady that was so kind to me,’’ 

Willy sighed, but he said no more on the 
subject, for he saw that his brother could not • 
decently avoid going. “ I wish,” said he to 
himself, “ I could see Father Fitzherbert, just 
to ask him what he thought about it. But I 
suppose I can’t see him now, for it would be 
too late when we come from school, an’ this 
is’nt his evenin’ to visit us,” and again he 
sighed heavily, for he had a misgiving that his 
brother was again rushing into danger. Just 
then they reached the school-house, and con- 
versation was for that time at an end. 

On the following morning Willy Burke was 
up and dressed by the light of the early dawn. 

“ Will you come to Mass, Peter he said, 
awakening his brother from a heavy slumber, 

“ the morning is very fine, and we can be back 
in time for breakfast.” 

“ Can’t you go off alone, as you do every 
mornin’, ” said Peter, peevishly, “ an’ let me 


139 


sleep a little longer ? I wish you’d mind your 
own business, an’ not be botherin’ me — when 
a body’s tired after their day’s work, it’s the 
least they may sleep as long as they can. God 
knows we have to be up an’ at work early 
enough.” 

“ Well, Peter, I’m sorry you’ll not come 
this mornin’, for I’m afraid you have a tempt- 
ation before you, an’ you stand in need of dou- 
ble grace. That’s just the reason why I asked 
you to come with me now.” 

But Peter grumbled and turned lazily on 
his bed, as though desirous of sleeping again, 
so his brother was fain to leave him, being 
fearful of losing the six o’clock Mass, at which 
he could alone be present, as breakfast was 
generally over by seven. 

When supper was over that evening, Willy 
went alone to school, while his brother pro- 
ceeded to pay his promised visit to Mrs. Wat- 
kins. On leaving the school-house Willy was 
agreably surprised to find Peter waiting for 
him at the first corner. 

“ Why, Peter,” he said, “you’re earlier than 
I thought you’d be. I was afraid you might 
be stayin’ at Mrs. Watkins’s till I’d have to go 
home alone ; an’ Mrs. Malcolm is’nt pleased 
when any of us is out late. Well, how did 


140 


you find Mrs. "Watkins ? — I suppose she made 
a great deal to do about you.” 

“You may say that, Willy,” replied his 
brother, as they walked on together ; “ an’, 
after all, I don’t find any one like her an’ Mr. 
Watkins. What do you think but they’ve of- 
fered me a dollar a week more than I have 
here,' an’ to let me go to night-school into the 
bargain. So I promised that I’d only put in 
this week here, an’ I’m to go back to them 
next Satmday evenin’ for good an’ all.” 

“ And you promised that, Peter, ” cried 
Willy, in a trembling voice. “ You promised 
to go back again to them, without consultin’ 
any one — even Father Fitzherbert ?” 

“ An’ why not, Willy ?” said the other, 
quickly, — “ Is’nt it my own business, an’ not 
Father Fitzherbert’s ? I suppose a body ought 
not to cross the door threshhold, or buy a cap 
for his head without askin’ the priest’s leave.” 

“ Ah, Peter, Peter,” said his brother, re- 
proachfully, “ you know very well that there’s 
a great differeiice between troublin’ a priest 
about such triflin’ things as them, an’ goin’ to 
ask his advice about changin’ your situation. 
Besides, you know as well as I do that poor 
mother on her death bed gave us in charge to 
Father Fitzherbert, and that it made her die 
happy when he promised to watch over us, an’ 


141 


guide us. Ay, an’ you know, too, that these 
very people made you disobey my mother, an’ 
grieve her so much that she never got over it.” 

Here Peter broke in abruptly — being unable 
to deny the truth of what his brother said, and 
resolved at the same time to have his own 
way, ho would hear no more on the subject. — 
“ Well, there’s no use in talkin’, for I’ll keep 
my promise, let what mil come or go, — mo- 
ther’s not alive now to forbid me, an’ no one 
else has a right to do it.” 

” But even Mr. Talbot,” persisted Willy, 
seeing that all else failed to produce any im- 
pression, ” What will he say to your leavin’ 
without any notice, an’ without bein’ able to 
find fault with the place ? I’m sure himself 
an’ Mr. Weimar mil have reason to complain.” 

“ I don’t care a fig for either of them,” was 
Peter’s reply, as he bounded up the steps and 
rang the bell ; for just then they reached their 
domicile, and he was well pleased to cut short 
a conversation which he found troublesome. — 
But Willy had no mind to renew the discus- 
sion having resolved to apprise Father Fitz- 
herbert of his brother’s intentions, — and he 
well knew that if any one could persuade him 
from a course so perilous it was he, and he 
alone. 

Next day, Willy sought and found an op- 


142 


portunity to acquaint Mr. Talbot "with the 
whole affair, and ask his permission to go dur- 
ing the day to Father Fitzherbcrt. Mr. Talbot 
was both pained and disappointed by this in- 
formation — “For,” said he to Willy, “ I know 
these people — these Watkins — even better 
than you do, and I am persuaded that they 
■will do any and every thing within the com- 
pass of their power to turn him away from the 
true faith. I am sorry, very, very sorry that 
he seems so determined. I think it might be 
well for me to speak to him myseK ou the 
subject.” 

“Well, it might, sir,” said Willy; “You 
can explain the matter to him better than I 
can, an’ perhaps he might listen to reason from 
you. At any rate, sir. I’ll go an’ see Father 
Fitzherbert, an’ ask him to come an’ speak to 
my brother.” 

But whether it was that Peter s'uspected 
what was going forward, and shrank from the 
anticipated force of persuasion, or that he took 
an inordinate pleasure in following the bent of 
his own inclinations, and thus giving a proof 
of what he considered independence, it is cer- 
tain that while Willy was gone to Father Fitz- 
herbert’s house, he suddenly appeared before 
ilr. Weimar in his office, and informed him 
that he was about to leave immediately. The 


143 


old man was at first taken by surprise, and de- 
sired to know the cause of this sudden deci- 
sion, but when Peter, in reply, could only tell 
him that he was offered higher wages from his 
old employer, Mr. Watkins, the German wax- 
ed wroth, and reminding the boy that he had 
consented to take him at first solely to oblige 
Mr. Talbot, he very politely told him to “ go 
to de deevil,” adding — “ You tink me offer you 
more wages because you tink yourself of use 
here, but I would’nt even let you stay now — 
so go off vid you. Your biodcr — he want 
higher vages, too — he want to go, eh r” 

“No, sir! I didn’t hear him say any thing 
about it.” 

“ Veil ! him be noting de vorse ! go now !” 

So when poor Willy returned, elate tvith 
Father Fitzherbert’s promise to see and reason 
with Peter in the course of the evening, what 
was his sorrow and disappointment when he 
found Peter waiting outside the door to bid 
him “ good bye.” 

“ You needn’t be frettin' about it, Willy 1” 
he said, seeing his brother’s change of coun- 
tenance. “Please God, you’ll find that I’ll do 
what’s right. You may be sure I’ll never dis- 
grace my father an’ mother, though they’re 
both dead an’ gone, by forgettin’ the religion 
that they taught me. Now, you’ll see, Willy! 


144 


if I don’t go every month to confession an’ 
communion as well as yourself, an’ another 
thing, whenever you re goin’ to see mother’s 
grave, you can come for me, an’ I’ll go with 
you. Give my love to Biddy an’ Ally, an’ 
tell them I’ll come soon to see them.” 

“ But didn’t you tell me.” said Willy, “that 
you weren’t goin’ till Saturday evenin’ ; what 
made you change your mind ?” 

“Oh! I’ll tell you that some other time!” re- 
plied his brother, with a light laugh, and seiz- 
ing Willy’s hand, he shook it warmly, and 
then w'alked aw’ay with a rapid step, carrying 
the small bundle which contained his spare 
clothes. W illy stood looking after him a mo- 
ment wi'h a heavy heart, but it was then no 
time to indulge idle reflection, so he hastened 
to his work. About half an hour after, he was 
summoned to the presence of Mr. Weimar, 
who, as soon as he made his appearance in 
front of the desk, accosted him with, “ Your 
broder gone, eh?” 

“Yes, sir,” said Willy, “and I'm sorry for 
it.” 

“ You like your place, den, eh ? ” 

“ Indeed I do, sir, for I hav’nt any cause to 
complain. I’m w'ell treated in every way; 
many thanks to you and Mr. Talbot, sir. An’ 
I hope, Mr. Weimar, you’ll not think hard ol 


145 


my brother leavin’ you, for the people he’s 
gone to were very kind to him when he was 
with them before, an’ they made him such fair 
promises now, sir, that he could’ nt get over 
them.” 

“ V ell ! veil ! ” said the old man, in a some- 
what softer tone than he generally used, ” you 
very good lad. But dey tell me you great 
priest man, eh ? — you go to church most every 
morning, eh ? — how is dat ? ” ' 

“ I hope, sir,” said Willy, in a deprecating 
tone, “ that you do not blame me for that. Mrs. 
Malcolm can tell you that I’m always bade 
some time before breakfast, so tha*: my goin’ 
to chiurch never kept me a minute from my 
work.” 

“ I know dat well enough,” was the sharp 
reply, “ but I no like all dis going to church. 
And den, worse dan all, you under de priest’s 
finger — you never do noting without his leave. 
Now, I say no more dis time, but only dis — 
don’t go to church so often — dat no use — and 
don’t let de priests humbug you any more — be 
good boy dat way and no fool, and I give you 
‘de dollar a week more — de same wages youu 
broder has from AV’atkins.” 

“ I humbly thank you, Mr. Weimar,” said 
Willy, “ you are fa^ too good to me, for I was 
well content the wages I had; but I hope 


146 


you’ll not be offended, sir, if I tell you that I 
can’t consent to leave off going to church, so 
long as I can make time to go without inter- 
ferin’ with the business ; and with regard to 
the priest, sir, he’s all the father I have, an’ 
I’ll never promise not to be guided by him. It 
was my mother’s — ay, an’ my father’s last ad- 
vice to us all, an’ with God’s help. I’ll never 
forget it. So, sir, if you don’t choose to raise 
my wages just as things stand, I’m content 
■with -what I have.” 

“ You strange boy, Willy Burke,” said the 
German, after a short pause. “I tell you 
again, I like you better if you not so much 
papist ; but no matter, dey tell me you work 
well, and do every ting dey bid you, so you 
get the wages I say while ago. Go off now to 
your^business ; I too much hurry to talk more.’ 
So Willy bowed and withdrew. 

Mr. Talbot soon after came in, and ■was 
much gratified by Weimar’s account of his 
young protege. “ It is just as I expected,” said 
he, “ there is in this Willy a simple earnest- 
ness of purpose, and a fixity of principle which 
will make him a truly respectable member of 
society, as well as a sincere and practical Chris- 
tian. In both these qualities — that is to say, 
steadiness and resolution — his brother is totally 
wanting, and I much fear that he will not turn 


U7 


out well.” He, however, kept to himself his 
fears with respect to the designs of which ho 
feared Peter might eventually become the 
dupe, for although Weimar had little or none 
of that proselytizing spirit by which Watkins 
and his wife were actuated, yet he loved not 
the Catholic religion any more than they did. 

Father Fitzherbert called that evening ac- 
cording to promise, and was much grieved 
when informed by Mrs. Malcolm and Willy, 
that Peter was already gone. Nor was he 
much consoled by Peter’s fair promises, as re- 
peated by his brother, but shaking his head 
with a desponding air, he said with a sigh, 
“ God grant him grace to keep these promises, 
— that is all I can say.” Ilis visit was neces- 
sarily short as he w'as on his way to visit a sick 
person, who although not in any immediate 
danger, still desired to receive the last sacra- 
ments. 

Two or three weeks after, came on the 4th 
of July, — then as now the carnival day, — the 
day of all days for the citizens of New York. 
On the eve of this great national festival, each 
of the young men in the employment of Wei- 
mar and Talbot, was presented with a few dol- 
lars, — less or more in proportion to their age — 
to spend on the following day. Willy Burke 
had two dollars given him, and he received it 


148 


not alone with the gratitude that might be ex- 
pected, but with a fullness of satisfaction that 
suqirised Mr. Talbot at least. No remark was 
made, however, and Willy retired with his 
prize. Next day he went and took his sisters, 
with Mr. Williams’s permission, to see some of 
the rare sights every where to be seen. They 
called at Mr. Watkins’s for Peter, but Peter 
had gone out, and was not expected back till 
evening. Brother and sister were disappoint- 
ed on hearing this, and their affectionate hearts 
were pained by Peter’s neglect of them all. 
Mrs. Williams had given each of the little 
girls a quarter dollar for pocket-money, but 
Willy would not permit them to spend any of 
it. Neither did he break in on his own two 
dollars, but contented himself with laying out 
a ten cent piece which he had in his pocket, 
and that solely for cakes and candies for the 
girls. 

“ Now it is’nt that Pd grudge,” said he, “to 
lay out every penny of the two dollars I got 
for pocket-money, but I’ll just tell you, girls ! 
that I’m keepin’ them for something else, an’ 
you wouldn’t guess what it is ?” 

One guessed a new cap, another a pair of 
shoes, — another would wager it was to buy 
books. “ No, then, you’re both out this time,” 
said AV^illy, and then he added in a low voice, 


149 


“ I’m keepin’ my two dollars till I put some 
more to it from my wages to put a cross or a 
head-stone over my poor mother I” 

On hearing this, each little girl pulled out 
her bright, shining quarter- dollar, and handed 
it to her brother, eagerly saying, though in a 
low whisper, for crowds were hurrying on all 
around. “ Ah, then, Willy dear ! won’t you 
let tLs put our money in too ? — sure we’d rather 
give it for that than any thing else in the 
world. Here, Willy, here’s mine !” — “ay,an’ 
mine too !” said little Alice, — “ isn’t it the fine 
thing that we didn’t lay any of it out?” Wil- 
ly took the money, and walkjed on some way in 
silence between his sisters, for their childish 
generosity touched his heart. Having seen 
the greater part of what was worth seeing, he 
left them at home early in the evening, and 
willingly accepted Mrs. AViUiams’s invitation 
to remain for tea. 

The next day, being Saturday, Mr. Talbot 
finding Willy alone in a comer of the ware- 
house, as he passed through, 'suddenly asked 
him whether he had spent all his two dollars ? 

“ No, sir,” was the reply. “ I didn’t break 
on it at all !” 

“ And why not, pray ? — I thought you testi- 
fied the utmost pleasure when it was given 
you !” 


150 


“Well, sir! that’s because I have a parti- 
cular use for it.” 

“ And may I ask what that ‘ particular use’ 
is ?” 

Willy moderately explained his intention, 
and also mentioned the half-dollar that he had 
got from his sisters. Mr. Talbot turned away 
without uttering another word, — in fact, his 
emotion was so great that he could not have 
spoken without betraying his weakness, as he 
deemed it, — he, therefore, hurried away,while 
Willy looked after him, surprised by his ab- 
rupt departure. 

Sunday came, and Willy called for his bro- 
ther, as usual, when on his way to Church. 
When mass was over, they went to take a 
walk in the Park, and Willy told his brother, 
that he was going to see about the cross or 
head-stone for their mother’s grave in the 
course of the week. 

“ But where’s the use in seein’ about it,” 
said Peter, “ till such times as we’re able to 
pay for gettin’ it done ? — it’ll come to a good 
deal of money !” 

“ Only four dollars, Peter, an’ I have two 
an’ a half of that, now ?” 

“ Why, I thought you had no money at all, 
after buyin’ yoxir new clothes last week ?” said 
Peter with siirprise. 


151 


“ Well, neither I had, only ten cents, an’ I 
bought ‘ sweeties’ for that for Biddy an’ Ally, 
when I had them out on the Fourth, — but 
then every one of us in the store an’ in the 
warehouse, got some pocket-money, and they 
gave me nothing less than two dollars in biUs, 
then Mrs. Williams gave the children a quar- 
ter each when they were coming out on Fri- 
day mornin’, and they gave it to me to put in 
with the rest. So you see that makes two 
dollars and a-half, an’ you can easily enough 
give the remainder, — its only one dollar and a- 
half we want, you know. A stone would come 
to more, they tell me, but somehow or other, 
even if it was as cheap, Fd rather have a wliite 
cross. I like to see a cross over a grave, an’ 
Fm sure mother herself if she could know any 
thing about it, would like it better than any 
head-stone. What do you think, Peter, for I 
want to have your advice before it goes far- 
ther ?” 

“ Well ! I don’t much care which you put 
up,” said Peter, “ so long as theie’s anything 
put in it for decency’s sake. But to tell you 
the truth, Willy ! ” hero a deep blush mount- 
ed to his very forehead — “To tell you the 
truth, I can’t help you to do it now, for I 
hav’nt a shilling in the world. You must wait 
a little, till I can spare the money 1 ” 


162 


“ said Willy, in a tone of chagrin, 

“ had’nt you two dollars when you left us, an’ 
hav’nt got anything new since then, except 
that vest ? ” 

“That’s true enough,” was the confused re- 
ply, “ but I went out with some of our boys 
on Friday, an' somehow or another I got 
through every pemiy of what I had, an’ bor- 
rowed half a dollar besides of Harry Lambert. 
I’m sure, if I had thought about this aif lir, I 
wouldn’t have spent the money as I did.” 

“You know we had agreed,” said Willy, in 
a sorrowful accent, “ that we were to do it as 
soon as we could raise the money between us, 
an’ when I got that two dollars I was sure we 
had enough, so I went an’ spoke to a man that 
Mrs. Williams directed me to, an’ he was to 
make the cross this week. But there’s no use 
in talkin’ about it now ; I can tell him not to 
mind doin’ it for the present, that’s all.” 

“But can’t cither you or I get a couple of 
dollars in advance?” asked Peter. “No, in- 
deed ! ” rejoined his brother, “it’s far better to 
wait a few weeks longer than to bo askin’ 
money before it’s earned. I’ll not do that at 
all. When we hav’nt the money, we must only 
wait. Come away an’ see Biddy an’ Ally.” 

When in the course of the afternoon the 
brothers and sisters were again together, and 


153 


ready for a walk, they agreed to go after ves- 
pers and see Mrs. O’ Grady, whom they had 
not seen for several weeks. They went ac- 
cordingly, and were grievea to find that times 
were sadly altered with that worthy woman 
and her family. Her husband had fallen into 
bad health and had been some time out of em- 
ployment, while her son — the main hope of the 
household — had been induced to go to sea. 
They were now all depending on what Mrs. 
O’ Grady and her oldest daughter could earn 
by washing, and going out charing. Every- 
thing in and • around the house gave sad evi- 
dence of poverty, and it was with heartfelt 
sorrow that the young Burkes noticed the al- 
teration in poor Mrs. O’ Grady herself, who 
w'as now as pale and worn-looking as they had 
been used to see her fat and rosy. Yet her 
welcome was as kind and cordial as ever, and 
with adroit delicacy she warded oif all allu- 
sions to her own affairs. Before they left, 
however. Will}' took her aside, and said in a 
low voice — for he had noticed that her hus- 
band was but very poorly clad — “ Now, Mrs. 
O’ Grady, if you can make any use at all of my 
father’s clothes, hero’s the key of the chest ; 
there’s a good coat, you know, and a good 
pair of trowsers in it, an’ I think a vest, too, 
an’ they’re all too big for either Peter or me. 


154 


Don’t refuse to take them — now don’t — for 
would’nt we rather a thousand times that 
they’d be doin’ some good to somebody, than 
Ijdn’ there moulderin’ away, as they’ll soon 
be.” 

Mrs. O’Grady put up her hand and wiped 
away a heavy tear that was trickling down her 
cheek. “ Well ! God bless you, Willy ! and 
mark you ■with grace — I know very well what 
makes you spake that way,” and she glanced 
at her husband’s threadbare garments, “ it ’id 
go against my mind altogether to take the 
things, but then — necessity has no law.” 

“An’ I’m sure, Mrs. O’ Grady,” rurged Wil- 
ly, with a view to set her mind at ease, “ I’m 
sure you need’nt be ashamed to take the 
clothes, for we owe you what would be far 
better to you than clothes, if we could only 
give it to you ; but we may, •with God’s help, 
some of these days.” 

“Now, I hope, Willy ! ” said Mrs. O’Grady 
quickly, “ that you’ll never say another word 
about that ; did’nt I tell your poor mother on 
her death-bed that I forgave her the trifle she 
owed me. (May the Lord be good an’ merci- 
ful to her !) So, if I take the clothes, mind it 
is’nt in regard of that, only because you’re so 
pressin’ on me to take them, an’ because — be- 
cause, AVilly,” — here her voice almost failed 


155 


her — “ because "we’re not out o’ the need o’ 
them.” She moved away with trembling haste, 
and Willy joining his brother and sisters, they 
soon after went away together, promising to 
come soon again. 

A day or two after, Willy went up to Mr’ 
Talbot, where he saw him alone, engaged in 
writing. “ Might I make so bold, Mr. Talbot,’’ 
said he, “ as to ask you to let me have two 
dollars ; that’s what I’d get on Saturday night,^ 
sir?” 

“ Certainly, Willy ! you shall have it with 
pleasure,” said Mr. Talbot, as he looked with 
surprise on Willy’s blushing face and down- 
cast eyes, “ I dare say you want to pay for 
having that cross put up, of which you told 
me ? ” 

“ Oh, no, sir ! it is’nt that at all,” returned 
Willy Burke, hastily. “ We’re going to wait 
for a little while, till we have more money, 
for Peter has none at all now. Oh, no, Mr. 
Talbot ! I would’nt on any account ask you 
for the money now, only I want it for them 
that’s in distress, sir, an’ that we owe it to.” 

“And who are they, Willy ? ” inquired the 
merchant, kindly. So Willy, thus called upon, 
told how his mother had owed Mrs. O’Gr’ady 
three and a half dollars for rent, and how Mrs, 
O’Grady had refused to take it when offered 


156 


her by his mother. But it’s not the case now,” 
said Willy, “ for poor Mrs. O’Grady is badly 
off those times, an’ so if you’ll be so good, sir, 
as to give me the two dollars, I can put it with 
the two I have, an’ take it to her. I don’t 
want to touch the half dollar that my sisters 
gave me, until it goes to pay for the cross, — 
for I’d like them to have their share in it.” 

“ And so you are willing to postpone the 
putting up of that cross,” said Mr. Talbot, “in 
order to give the money that would do it to 
your friend, Mrs. O’ Grady ? Well, here are 
the two dollars, and I must say (although not 
much given to flatter our young men) that 
your conduct is deserving of the w'armest ap- 
proval.” 

“ You are very good to say so, sir,” was 
Willy’s reply ; “ and I hope God will always 
give me grace to do Avhat is right.” And 
pocketing his money with a well-pleased coun- 
tenance he moved away. Turning back, how- 
ever, he asked Mr. Talbot whether he might 
take time in the course of the evening to go to 
Mrs. O’Grady’s. “That is,” said he, “if there’s 
nothing particular for me to do — because if 
there is I would’nt for any thing ask to go.” 

“You can go just now, Willy,” said Mr. 
Talbot, “ and if Mr. Weimar asks for you I 
shall airswer for your absence.” So Willy 


157 


thanked him again and withdrew. Hurrying 
along on the wings of gratitude and friendship, 
Willy Burke speedily reached Mrs. O’Grady’s 
dwelling, and found her alone with her hus- 
band, who was now unable to move from his 
chair without assistance. Scarcely did Willy 
wait to answer the good woman’s friendly in- 
quiries, till pulling out Ms little purse, he took 
out the four dollars and handed it io Mrs. O’- 
Grady. 

“What’s this, Willy ?” she asked, with un- 
feigned surprise. 

“ Why, it’s four dollars I’ve brought you,” 
was the quick response, “just because we had 
it to spare, thanks be to God for it ! — an’ I 
could’ nt rest a minute since I saw how matters 
w'ere here, till I came wth it. Take it, an’ 
keep it, Mrs. O’ Grady, dear, for it’s your own, 
an’ much good may it do you.” 

Mrs. O’ Grady handed the bUls to her hus- 
band, saying, “ Look there Barney, see how 
good and merciful is the Lord.” Then while 
the poor man sat gazing in silence on the mo- 
ney in his hand, a gratified expression resting 
on his haggard face, she turned to Willy and 
catching both Ms hands in hers, wMle the tears 
burst forth like rain, she sank on her knees be- 
fore the astonished boy. 

“ Oh ! then, may the great an’ merciful God 


158 


restore it to you au’ yours, a hundred times 
over, Willy Burke ! — an’ it’s you that has 
earned a blessing for yourself this day, for we 
had’nt bit or sup in the house, nor did’nt know 
where to get it, an’ that poor, sickly man there 
was jist faintin’ for something to eat. All the 
money we could raise, ay, every cent, we had 
to give to the landlord last night, for he was 
threatenin’ tp put us out on the street, because 
we owed him so much, an’ were’nt able to give 
him any for a long time before. The Lord’s 
blessin’ an’ mine be about you, child ! an’ may 
you never know what want is, I pray God an’ 
his Blessed Mother, this day.” 

Willy Burke could not stay to hear more, 
but it may well be believed that he had never 
in all his young life felt so happy as he did 
that day. A thousand times during the after- 
noon and evening did he breathe a fervent 
thanksgiving to the Lord, for having enabled 
him to assist that worthy family in their great 
distress. Next day he took occasion to tell 
!Mr. Talbot of the timely relief the money had 
afforded, and the benevolent heart of that gen- 
tleman was more than rejoiced by the news. 

The six working days passed away and Sun- 
day came again. There had fallen some heavy 
rain during the night, so that the streets were 
wet and muddy, and Willy Burke, when ho 


159 


went to see his sisters, did not ask them to go 
to walk on that account. But in the evening, 
Peter and he walked towards the church-yard 
wherein their mother lay. They were just 
saying as they reached the gate that it was loo 
wet for them to go in through the long grass, 
but as they could see their mother’s grave from 
the gate, they stopped to look in. What was 
their astonishment (for Willy had told his bro- 
ther, as'w'e have seen, that they must put it 
off for some time) when they saw standing at 
the head of the grave a handsome white cross, 
with an inscription in black,but at that distance 
they could not see what it was. 

“ Why then, Willy, ” cried his brother, 
“is’nt that mother’s grave where that beauti- 
ful cross is ?” 

“ It is, indeed,” said Willy, “ an’ I think 
some one must have mistaken it for another : 
let us see if the stone I stuck into the ground 
is still there.” And in they went, but they 
had no need to look for the stone — which was, 
however, there ; for as they approached near 
enough the inscription caught their eye. It 
was : “ Here lies the body of Mrs. Bridget 

Burke, a native of the County Tipperary, Ire- 
land. While here on earth, she served the 
Lord, in spirit and in truth. May her soul 
rest in peace !” 


160 


“Well, thanks be to God, any how, that 
we have lived to see that sight !” was Willy’s 
exclamation, when they had for some minutes 
gazed in silent amazement on the handsome 
monumental cross. “ Whoever did it, may 
the Lord reward them — an’ he will. Can you 
guess who it was, Peter ?” 

“ Not I,” was the answer. 

“ Well, then. I’m not so,” said Willy, as 
quitting the church-yard they walkdd away 
together, “ but I’ll say nothing about it, till I 
see whether I’m right or not.” 


CHAPTER YIII. 

PERSECUTION. 

“ WTio is your brother’s confessor now — or 
has he any, do you know ?” inquued Pather 
Fitzherbert of Willy, when on the Saturday 
preceding the first Sunday of August he had 
been to his confession, 

“ Indeed sir,” said Willy, “ I’m very much 
afraid he does’nt go to his duty at all ; and I 
wanted this good w'hile to speak to your rev- 
erence about him. Every time I call for him, 
when I’m coming myself, he’s sure to have 
some excuse, — either he hasn’t time or he isn’t 
prepared to go. It’s no use my telling him 


161 


that he ought always to have time for what 
concerns his soul ; and that, as for preparing 
himself, he can do that in a short time even in 
the church, while he’s waiting, if he only asks 
God to give him the proper dispositions. He’ll 
always put me off, and say, ‘ Well, I’ll be sure 
to be ready the next time but it’s the same 
every time I go, so I don’t know what’s going 
to come of him, sir.” 

“ Alas !” said the priest, and he sighed as 
he spoke, “ this is just what I fores<vw, and 
dreaded. Throwing himself, as he has done, 
exclusively amongst Protestants, and while his 
mind was still but imperfectly indoctrinated 
with Catholic principles and Catholic faith, he 
will, it is to be feared, gradually become im- 
bued with the sentiments and ideas of those 
about him. His position is, indeed, a danger- 
ous one, for he has not that strength of mind 
or firmness of faith which might secure him 
from the assaults of the tempter.” 

The next time Willy saw Father Fitzherbort 
out of the church, he took occasion to tell him 
of the handsome cross which some unknown 
friend had placed over his mother’s grave. 

“ And I have some suspicion of who it is 
that did it, sir,” said Willy. Except your 
reverence there’s only another that I’d think 
of at all.” 

K 


162 


“ And who is this other, Willy ?” the priest 
inquired with a smile. 

“ Mr. Talbot, sir.” 

Father Fitzherbert, smiled again. “ Well, 
Willy, I believe you are not mistaken in your 
surmise. I have some reason to know that it 
was, indeed, Mr. Talbot, who thus -testified 
his respect for a true Christian, as he had well 
ascertained your mother to have been. He has 
told me, too, the whole affair — that is to say, 
your meritorious project of having this monu- 
ment erected, and your still more laudable 
disposal of the money intended to put it in 
execution. I will venture to tell you that it 
was still more to show his warm approval of 
your conduct, than through respect for your 
mother’s memory that he did this. May God 
give you the grace, dear child, to walk firmly 
and steadily in the path of duty.” 

“ I can’t go astray, sir, ” said Willy, in re- 
ply, “ while 1 have you to guide me.” 

“ Ah, but you must not rely too much on 
any support or guidance — that is merely human 
— learn to look ever for supernatural protec- 
tion, and for the strength that comes from 
above. The time is already near when you 
will have me no longer ; and I would, there- 
fore, have your course plainly marked by a 
strong and steadfast will ere I leave you, it 


163 

t 

may be, for ever. I am even now on the eve of 
departing for Ireland, and at my age, man has 
but a frail hold on his life, so that it is very 
possible t^at I may sink into the gulf of eter- 
ixity ere we meet again.” 

On hearing this announcement, the tears 
which Willy sought not to repress, burst forth 
and rolled unheeded from his eyes. “Ah ! 
but Father Fitzherbert, dear, what will I do 
when you’re away, even if ' Jod spares you to 
come back, as I hope he v J? Who v'ill be 
to me as you were, — and 3 us all as well as 
me ?” 

“Shame, Willy, sham I” said the priest, 
though he was evidently more than a little af- 
fected by the lad’s artless sorrow. “ Have you 
not still the right hand of the Lord to guide 
and strenghten you — even of Him from whom 
I derived, and do derive, my strength and con- 
solation. He is ever the same, Willy ! and 
let who may leave, or who remain with you, 
you will ever find Him a tender father, unless 
you turn away your face from Him, and follow 
the gods of this world. And then you have 
the same sacraments to nourish and strengthen 
you — ^remember that, my child — and I would 
advise you to choose Father O’Hara for your 
confessor when I am gone.” 

Though scarcely able to articulate a word, 


164 


his heart was so full, yet "Willy signified his 
assent, and soon after. Father Fitzherbert went 
away, having merely called to see Mrs. Mal- 
colm.” 

No sooner had the priest quitted the room — 
the house-keeper having gone to her kitchen — 
than one of the young men, who ehanccd to be 
present, addressed "Willy Burke, in a contempt- 
uous tone : “ So that’s your father confessor, 

eh ?” 

To this Willy made no reply, for he felt the 
full force of the bitter irony with which it was 
said, and would fain appear not to have heard 
it. 

“ I say, Burke,” repeated Wilson, in a loud- 
er voice, “ a’nt that your confessor ?” 

“Yes,” was the short reply, and Willy arose 
to leave the room. 

“ Well, if that a’nt a good joke, I know not 
what is.” And the speaker burst into a loud 
laugh. 

Willy Burke turned short round, and his 
eheek, with its crimson hue, betrayed how 
keenly he felt the insult. “ Why, Mr. Wilson, 
you must bo badly off this evening for some- 
thing to make you laugh. I’d thank you to 
choose some other subject than the one you’re 
on, for if you know but all, it doesn’t become 
any body to be makin’ a laugh of what they 
know nothing about.” 


165 


“There now,” returned the other — “ there 
you go — now what have I said to make you so 
angry — for I see that you are angrj', for all you 
don’t want to show it ? Now, I just put the 
question to you as a rational being — how can 
such an old coon as that, have any power to 
forgive sins ? Why, you papists are the great- 
est dupes in existence. I guess it would take 
a good deal to make me bend my knee to a man 
no better than myself, and tell him all my sins 
— great and small. And then the best of all 
is, his pretending to forgive them, as though 
he were God himself, or a messenger from him. 
Now how can you bring yourself to believe 
such nonsense r” 

“ So long,” replied "Willy, “ as you are 
pleased to speak in such a manner of the doc- 
trines of our Church, you’ll get no informa- 
tion from me ; and besides, any one that speaks 
of a priest as you did a minute ago, is not de- 
serving of an answer from any Catholic ; so if 
you want me to reply to any question you put 
to me, you’ll ask it in a different manner.” 

“Well, then,” said Wilson, assuming a grav- 
ity which the mischievous leer of his eye be- 
lied, “ 1 would fain know what certainty j'ou 
have, or can have, that this priest of yours — 
I beg his pardon and yours for having applied 


166 


the word «xw» to so holy a man — is really au- 
thorised to absolve you from your sins ?” 

“ Indeed, Mr. Wilson,” said Willy, in re- 
ply, “ I don’t half like your way of talking, — 
and J have a great mind to let you look for 
knowledge elsewhere. At any rate. I’ll just 
answer your last question, and then I’ll have 
done. I’m no great hand at quoting scripture, 
so I’ll not trouble you with any texts to prove 
the power left with the priests, but I’ll just tell 
you that I believe it, because the Church be- 
lieves it, and teaches it to her children. Any 
thing that way that I can’t understand, I don’t 
dive into it at all, because I’m not able to 
judge of these high matters ; but I just believe 
whatever the Church proposes to me.” 

“ More fool you, then,” exclaimed Wilson, 
quickly, “ for what you call the Church is no- 
thing more than a collection of priests and bi- 
shops, as far as I can understand ; and, of 
course, they can make just such laws as tend 
to increase their own power over the people. 
I have, really, no patience with such stupid 
dupes as you and your people are. The Church, 
indeed ! What nonsense it is, talking of the 
Church in such a way.!’ 

Willy Burke laughed, as he arose to leave 
the room. “ Why, your fun is all turned into 
anger Mr. Wilson. Now, I’d just advise you 


167 


before I go, not to be attacking me any more 
about my religion, for I can tell you that you’ll 
make nothing of it. If you were to laugh at 
me every day and hour that’ll come till New 
Year’s Day you wouldn’t make me ashamed 
of doing any thing that the Church commands 
me to do. Whatever you Protestants may 
think or say, I’m proud and happy that God 
has given me grace to ‘ Aear the Church,' for 
you know — you that talks so much about read- 
ing the Bible — what any one is to be consider- 
ed that does not. You go on your own way, 
then, and see where it’ill bring you to ; but 
for my part, I don’t want to be regarded as 
either ‘ a heathen,' or ‘a publican,' so with God’s 
help, I’ll always listen to the voice of the 
Church, and then I can’t be wrong. Good 
night, Mr. Wilson.” 

An insolent laugh was the only answer, and 
Wilson seemed disposed to let Willy go, with- 
out further parley, but just at that moment 
the door-bell rang, announcing some of the 
young men, and Wilson became suddenly de- 
sirous of protracting a conversation which he 
deemed capital fun, now that he was about to 
have auditors who would not only join in the 
laugh raised at Burke’s expense, but would 
furnish their quota of wit and sarcasm, on the 
absurdity of the Bomish doctrines. 


168 


Willy Burke was already ascending tke 
stairs, on his way to bed, when Wilson, run- 
ning out of the sitting-room, called after him 
at the top of his voice, while at the same time 
he opened the door for two of his companions. 

“Hold on there, Burke, — what need for 
hurrying so ? I want to hear something more 
about confession, and the Church. You talk 
in a first-rate style ; and, by George, you may 
make a convert of me.” 

“ I don’t want to make converts,” responded 
Burke, daily, “ and if you wish to know more 
about the things you speak of, you can just go 
to the priest, an’ he’ll tell you all about it, or 
if you like it better, there’s catechism taught 
in all our churches, an’ you have only to sit 
down quietly and listen, an’ you’ll hear all 
about ‘ Confession, and the Church,’ as you say 
yourself.” 

The laugh was now fairly turned against 
Wilson, who thus fell into the pit he had him- 
self dug for another, and the merriment of Ha- 
milton and Dawson annoyed him beyond mea- 
sure. Muttering between his teeth, “ I guess 
I’ll be even -with him one of these days.” He 
was retreating into the sitting-room, amid the 
continued laughter of his companions, who 
plied him, moreover, with such questions as — 
“ So, Wilson, are you going to the priest, eh r” 


169 


— “ will you ask his reverence’s blessing ?” — 
when suddenly Mrs. Malcolm’s shrill voice 
was heard from the further end of the passage, 
as she emerged Irom the lower regions : 

“ What’s all this clatter about — or are you 
takin’ leave o’ your senses, ye graceless loons?” 

On hearing her voice the three young men 
took refuge in the sitting room, but seeing the 
light of Willy Burke’s candle, as he hastened 
along the upper passage to his bed-room, she 
stepped a little way up the stairs to see who it 
was, and was no little surprised to find him 
alone. 

“ ^\'hJ^ Gad’s sake, Willie Burke !” she 
cried, sharply, “ what hae j'ou been doin’ to 
mak’ sic like noise ? Where are a’ the ither 
lads gane to ? What’s come o’er ye a’ the 
night, for a body would think you had a mind 
to pull down the house among you ?” 

Willy could easily have justified himself, 
and at the same time excited Mrs. Malcolm’s 
anger against Wilson, but he remembered the 
precept — ‘ Do good for evil ’ — and that other 
divine saying — ‘ Revenge is mine ’ — and he 
stoutly resisted the temptation : “ I hope 

you’ll forgive us for this time, Mrs. MalColm,” 
he said, for it was only a little joke of mine 
that set them all a laughing — you see, then, 
the fault is mine, and I beg your pardon, for I 


170 


know very well that you don’t like to hear 
any noise or disturbance in the house.” 

Little did good Mrs. Malcolm suspect what 
had been going forward, but even as it was she 
could fully appreciate Willy’s conduct. — 
“ Well ! well ! ye’re a guid laddie, there’s no 
denyin’ it, — awa’ wi’ you to bed, but dinna 
raise sic laughing ony more, wi’ your jokes.” 
Willy lost no time in gaining his quiet little 
room, and the housekeeper returned to her ro- 
sary, which had been interrupted by the ob- 
streperous mirth of the young men. 

“ ^Vhat the devil did he say to her ?” said 
Hamilton to his friends, after a pause of rather 
anxious expectation. “ I was expecting every 
moment a full broadside of wrath from the old 
hag, and there she’s gone down to the kitchen 
again without saying an angry word. Do you 
think he told her what you said ?” 

“ I don’t know, nor neither do I care,” re- 
turned Wilson doggedly, — “ but whether he 
did or did not. I’ll keep his impudence in mind 
till I have a chance of paying him home, — that 
I will, or my name is not George Wilson.” 

“ Well now, after all, George,” said Daw- 
son, who had not yet spoken, since he had 
heard Wilson’s account of his conversation 
with Willy, — “ after all, it really does appear 
to me, that Burke is the party aggrieved, — not 


171 


you. By your own acknowledgment, it was 
you who attacked him, and you might have 
known before to-night, that he is exceeding 
sensitive in all that regards his religion. Now, 
as for me, I’m -willing to acknowledge merit 
even in a Catholic, and I do confess that I ad- 
mire the lad’s steadiness of principle, and his 
immova;ble attachment to the faith he pro- 
fesses. Another thing that strikes me just now, 
is his not ha-ving told Mrs. Malcolm of what 
passed between you, for you know as well as 
I do, that rigid Catholic as she is, nothing 
could have palliated your offence in her eyes, 
had she known any thing of it. I must say 
that this same Willy Burke makes me think 
better than I did of Papists. And then Mr. 
Talbot, — I’m sure no one amongst us can find 
any fault with him.” 

“ Why, you had better turn Papist yourself, 
Dawson,” said Wilson, -with a sneer, since you 
seem to have such a leaning towards them. I 
suppose we’ll have you going to confession 
some of these days !” 

“And if I did,” replied Dawson, with a 
heavy sigh,” I might lead a far different life !” 
So saying, he took his candle and bade the 
others “ good night,” leaving them to inter- 
pret his words as they best could. 

Leaving Willy Burke enjoying the calm re- 


172 


pose of an untroubled conscience, let us turn 
for a little while to his brother, whom w'e have 
perchance too long neglected. 

Mrs. Watkins, as well as her husband, had 
quickly discovered the natural w^cakness of 
Peter’s understanding, together with that pli- 
ancy of mind which made him peculiarly open 
to persuasion, particularly if it addressed itself 
to his vanity, which was after all, his prevail- 
ing foible. Artfully and insidiously had they 
worked upon this strong characteristic of his, 
until they got him persuaded that it was ac- 
tually degrading for a young lad like him to 
be so entirely under the control of a priest, — 
“ a mere mortal like himself,” — and then con- 
fession, — why, in the name of every thing 
reasonable, how could one man expect that 
another had power to forgive his sins, — did 
not that belong to God alone, and if He gave 
such authority to another, — to one of his crea- 
tures, — would it not be making that creature 
like unto Himself in power. “ Do you not re- 
member, Peter ?” w'ould the lady or gentle- 
man add, — “How God had styled himsel^ 

a jealous God,’ and as such, think you He 
would invest these priests of the Romish 
Church, one and all, with one of His own di- 
vinest attributes ? — no, no, impossible, absurb!” 

Alas ! for poor Peter, — all unmeet was he 


173 


to wrestle with, the tempter, — it was not for 
him, ignorant as his mind was concerning 
faith delivered to the saints,” and being un- 
able to detect the misrepresentation and 
the (perhaps wilful) perversion of the sacred 
text, he knew not what to say. Fain would 
he have stood up for the faith of his fathers, — 
the faith (if such it might be called) of his own 
earlier years, but he knew not how to defend 
it. He had voluntarily thrown himself into 
temptation, and the armor that might have en- 
abled him to resist its attack, was no longer 
his. His faith, alas ! was weak and tottering, 
— his vanity exceeding strong, and he fell by 
degrees into the pit prepared for him. Yet 
not all at once was wrought the dread change, 
— during many a hard encounter with the 
united forces of the encmy,he had endeavored 
to keep his ground, clinging with almost des- 
perate fondness to the old tree which had shel- 
tered his fathers from immemorial time, and 
shrinking wdth bitter shame from the idea of 
becoming an apostate, — “a tum-coat,” as he 
said to himself; but he sought not strength 
from above, — he relied alone on himself, and 
took pride in what he believed his immovable 
resolution. But at every attack, the assailants 
waxed stronger, and he weaker ; — they push- 
ed home their arguments ( as they chose to sty 


174 


their black calumnies against the Church of 
God, and their absurd distortions of Scriptural 
texts) while he could only draw back farther 
and farther, becoming ever w'eaker and more 
wavering in his resistance, — the consequence 
is easily foreseen. 

Meanwhile it will be remembered how fruit- 
less were his brothf*r’s attempts to induce him 
to approach the sacraments. Thus did he 
voluntarily absent himself from those channels 
of grace, — those sources of living water,opened 
by Christ himself for the comfort and support 
of his children while on their toilsome heaven- 
ward journey. Little did Willy Burke suspect, 
when he so sorrowfully complained to Father 
Fitzherbert of his brother’s strange indiffer- 
ence to the affairs of his soul, that already was 
that brother more than a little advanced on 
the road of error, and that the gem. of faith 
could no longer be said to exist within him. 

Nay, so far had he already gone in the way 
of sin and error, that after each of these un- 
successful attempts of his brother, he went 
straight to Mr. or Mrs. Watkins to boEist of 
having “got rid of that troublesome Willy !” 
and he was sure to be rewarded by some hand- 
some present, and some still handsomer com- 
pliment. “ I reaUy do begin to have hopes of 
you, my dear boy !” said the lady on one of 


175 


these occasions ; — “ and I have no doubt but 
you will soon get over these silly prejudices, — 
then, and then only, you will become a truly 
rational being, and fit to make your waj' in 
the world. If you could once bring yourself 
to tell this brother of yours that you will not 
be hoodwinked by the priests any longer, — un- 
til you can do that, he will be always teasing 
you about these foolish ceremonies and prac- 
tices of superstition.” 

On another occasion she told him, “ What 
do you think that elegant Mr. Mortimer said 
of you last evening ?” (Now this Mr. Mortimer 
was a ranting Methodist preacher.) 

“ I’m sure I don’t know, ma’am,” said Pe- 
ter, raising his large eyes to the lady’s face 
with a look of intense curiosity, — “ I hope it 
wasn’t any thing bad, for he’s a very nice man, 
altogether, and speaks so beautifully.” 

“ Bad !” repeated Mrs. Watkins, emphati- 
cally, “no, indeed, Peter; — no such thing. 
He said you were bom for a shining light, and 
that he was sure you would one day make a 
stir in the world ; — he co\ild not help express- 
ing his wonder : dear, good man ! that such a 
boy as you, so clear-sighted and acute in your 
penetration, could have been kept so long in 
the trammels of popery !” 

Peter listened with a glowing cheek, and a 


176 


Kindling eye, — his heart throbbed wildly a- 
gainst his side, and the unholy thrill of grati- 
fied vanity ran like fire through his veins. — 
Well, ma’am,” he said, “ lean only say that 
its very good of Mr. Mortimer to speak so kind- 
ly of me, and I’m sure I’ll do all I can to de- 
serve his good opinion, and yours, too,ma’am!” 
So he hastily left the room, to indulge his 
pleasurable emotion in private. Mrs, AVat- 
kins looked after her dupe with a smile of tri- 
umphant meaning, as she murmured half 
aloud, “ One brand snatched from the burn- 
ing ! This is well, and as it should be.” 

It was the Saturday evening after the con- 
versafion with AVilson, and some three or four 
weeks after the discovery of the Cross. Al- 
though we have seen that from the first, AVil- 
ly had suspected that Mr. Talbot was the un- 
known benefactor of his family, still it was re- 
markable that he never breathed a word of the 
matter to that gentleman. AVeek after week 
he had received and pocketed his wages with- 
out as much as thanking him whom he well 
Oelieved to have earned his warmest gratitude. 
Was it that he had forgotten ? not so, — AVilly 
Burke was, of all others, the least likely to 
forget a benefit. 

On the evening to which I have alluded, he 
waited in the office tiU all the others had re- 


177 


tired, when, approaching Mr. Talbot, who still 
remained at his desk, he said, — 

“ May I speak a few words to you, Mr. Tal- 
bot, if you please ?” 

“ Of course you may, Wdly, — half a him- 
dred, if you will.” 

“ Well, sir, I suppose you thought me very 
ungrateful because I never came to thank you 
for what you have done for us all of late.” 
Then seeing that Mr. Talbot looked, or affect- 
ed to look surprised, he added — “ You know 
very well what I mean, sir, — the beautiful 
cross that you got put up over my mother’s 
grave.” 

“ What reason have you to attribute its erec- 
tion to me, WiUy ?” asked the merchant with 
a smile. 

“ Oh, sir !” replied Willy, with all that gen- 
uine fervor that belongs to the unsophisticat- 
ed Irish heart, — “ oh, sir, it wasn’t very hard 
for me to guess who did- it, — there was only 
you and Father Fitzherbert to do it, and I 
knew that his reverence hadn’t the means, 
though he’d have the heart, God for ever bless 
him ; — so 1 knew at once who we had to thank 
for it, but I didn’t say any thing till I’d have 
the way of offering you what you laid out on 
it. I haven’t spent a penny of my wages since, 
sir, and there’s eight dollars and a half in that 

L 


178 


purse,” putting it on the desk as he spoke. 

If it cost any more than that, Mr. Talbot, I 
can pay you when I earn it.” 

Here Mr. Talbot affected to be in some de- 
gree offended, though in his heart he could 
not but approve of the boy’s conduct. “ And 
suppose I were to take your money, Willy, do 
you think that would altogether cancel the 
obligation ?— ^or it does seem to me that this 
offer of yours proceeds from an over weaning 
spirit of independence ! What reason have 
you to look on this act of mine as a loan ?” 

“ Oh, Mr. Talbot ! — oh, sir !” and it was 
with much difficulty that Willy restrained his 
tears, “ if you speak that way you’ll break my 
heart — you will, indeed, sir ! Oh, no ! I 
know very weil that no money can ever pay 
the debt of gratitude we all owe you, and, 
please God, if I lived a hundred years I’ll 
never forget it ; but, sir, when I knew very 
well that it Avas you that went to all that ex- 
pense on our accoimt, don’t you think it was 
my dnty to offer you the money, at least, be- 
cause even when it’s paid I’ll owe you the 
gratitude still — may the Lord reward you, and 
if it be His holy will, I pray that I may never 
die till I’ll be able to show you that I’m 
not unthankfxil. Do, sir, please to take the 
money ! ” 


179 


‘ ‘No, Willy, that I wdll not ! ” and Mr. Tal- 
bot, as he spoke, could scarcely preserve a 
show of composure. “ Since I must acknow- 
ledge that your suspicions are well-founded, I 
have only to say that the few dollars which I 
expended on that monument have procured 
me more pleasure than I have for years expe- 
rienced. The act was purely spontaneous, and 
done without the slightest thought of ever be- 
ing repaid — my intention being to testify my 
sincere respect for the humble yet distin- 
guished virtues of your departed parent, while 
at the same time I had no objection to gratify 
your filial affection by seeing a decent memo- 
rial placed over her remains. Keep the money, 
Willy, and put it to whatsoever use you please. 
I am quite sure it will be well laid out. There 
— no more thanks — I anticipate all you would 
say. Go, now, and remember that you will 
never want a friend w'hile I live ! ” 

“ May the Lord bless you, sir ! ” murmured 
Willy Burke, as he left the office. On reach- 
ing the house, he found several of the young 
men assembled, waiting the appearance of sup- 
per, but Mrs. Malcolm was not in the eating- 
room. Many a significant glance was ex- 
changed between them as Willy entered, and 
his cheerful greeting was only answered by 
dark looks and bitter sneers. Of late, poor 


180 


Willy had been well accustomed to such treat- 
ment, and now, pretending not to notice it, he 
took a small book from his pocket and sat 
down near a window. 

“ Pray, Master William, of what nature may 
your studies be ? ” called out one from an op- 
posite corner of the room. “ Piety again, I 
guess?” and his tittering laugh was echoed 
all around. 

“ It’s the life of St. Patrick I’m reading. 
Mr. Wilson ! ” said Willy, raising his eyes from 
his book. 

“ Ay ! it looks new,” said Wilson, “ I sup- 
pose Mr. Talbot gave it to you as a reward for 
your budget of stories just now. You earned 
it well I reckon ? ” 

“ I thought you said that you never carried 
news to Mr. Talbot, eh? ” asked another jeer- 
ingly, “ now, we’ve found you out — there’s no 
denying it this time ! ” 

Willy Bmke smiled, for he was much 
amused to see the general attack made upon 
him, and all shooting so far wide of the mark. 
“ Well,” he said, in a jocular tone, “ I have 
read in the Pairy Tales a story of a man — Fine- 
ear they called him — that could hear the grass 
growing, but if any of you heard me telling Mr. 
Talbot stories, I declare you beat Fine- ear out 
and out — -for I never said one word about any 


181 


of you. And then you’re all a little mistaken 
as regards the book, for Father Fitzherbert 
gave it to me as a present last St. Patrick’s 
Day.” 

On hearing this, and Willy’s honest face de- 
clared that he spoke the simple truth, his ad- 
versaries were somewhat disconcerted, and 
more than one sallow face was suffused with 
crimson. But they would not so easily submit 
as vanquished, and two or three asked in the 
same breath — “ What made you wait in the 
office, then, till we were all gone this evening? 
Why didn’t you clear out when we did ? Ha ! 
ha ! none of your shifting or turning now — 
there’s no denying what we saw oui’selve. 
What did you want to say to Mr. Talbot, for 
Henry Davis, as he closed the door, heard you 
ask if you might speak a few words ?” 

“ As to that,” said Willy, with a slight tre- 
mor in his voice, that to his prejudicial listen- 
ers seemed confusion, “as to that, it’s nobody’s 
business but my own, and I have no mind to 
teU you. I never pry into any other one’s af- 
fairs, and it’s too bad that you’re all so inqui- 
sitive about mine.” 

“ Ay, there it is !” shouted several of the 
young men, in a tone of exultation. “ I knew 
he couldn’t deny that. You see he can’t say 


182 


a word for himself now. A’nt he a pretty lad 
to have amongst us ? — a’nt he now ?” 

Here Saunders, who had taken no part in 
the discussion, laid down the book which he 
haa been reading and demanded what all this 
meant. On being told, he sternly ordered the 
young men to desist from their attack. “I be- 
lieve Willy Burke,” said he, “ to be incapable 
of such mean tattling as you lay to his charge. 
I, for one, have been given some degree of au- 
thority over him and you, and I can testify 
that I have never seen in him the slightest de- 
sire to speak ill of any of you. Let me hear 
no more of this or I shall be obliged to ac- 
quaint the gentleman of your unkindness to- 
wards this orphan lad.” The threat was for 
that time effectual, and never after did his per- 
secutors attack him when Saunders -was pre- 
sent. 

Father'Fitzherbert’s departure was fixed for 
the Tuesday following, and on Sunday Willy 
Burke called at Mr. Watkins’s to know whe- 
ther Peter would not go with him to take leave 
of the priest. But Peter was not to be seen — 
he was out somewhere, and was not expected 
till late in the afternoon. Willy was sorely 
disappointed, but he walked away without 
making any remark to the servant, and went 
next to Mrs. Williams’s to take his sisters with 


183 


him. Mrs. Williams was not in the room 
when he entered, and he took the opportunity 
to propose to Bridget and Alice a little plan 
which he had formed for the disposal of the 
money which Mr. Talbot had refused to ac- 
cept. “ For you know, girls,” said he, “ that 
I have your half dollar still.” When the pro- 
ject was explained, it made the little girls 
jump for very joy. 

“ Why, Willy ! how in the world do you 
think of such nice little plans ?” asked the el- 
der. “ I’m sure you’re always thinking of 
something good — oh, then, Bridget, won’t that 
be the fine thing all out ?” 

“Yes, but, Alice,” said Mrs. Williams, who 
had been an unwitting listener from the begin- 
ning and now entered from the next room — 
“Yes, but when you and Bridget put your 
money to such use as that, you must have a 
little more to give. Hero is another half-dollar 
for them, Willy — that will make their half- 
dollar a whole one. And now, children, as I 
know you are all anxious to see Father Fitz- 
herbert, you can go at once, — be sure, Willy, 
you come back with the girls to tea, — I want 
you here every Sunday evening that you can 
come.” And so saying, herself put on the lit- 
tle girls’ bonnets, and laughingly pushed them 
from the room, saying: “There now — you 


184 


want very badly to thank ‘ good Mrs. Wil- 
liams’ — but another tinie will do. Clear out, 
all of you !” 

Willy then took his sisters to bid “good bye' 
to the priest, and receive his parting benedic- 
tion. The tears stood in his eyes when Father 
Fitzherbert asked for Peter. Willy could 
scarcely command his voice to tell that he 
wasn’t in when he called for him, and the 
priest only shook his head, for he saw that the 
boy was only too sensible of his brother’s dan- 
ger. Before leaving, Willy asked whether he 
might not come again the next evening, after 
school, “ For,” said he, “ I have a book be- 
longing to your reverence — it’s the History of 
the Church, sir — and I didn’t bring it with me, 
because I wanted to see yotur reverence again 
before you go.” HaVing received a kind and 
cordial consent, Willy made his best bow, and 
his sisters their lowest curtsey, and all three 
retired. 

On the following evening, punctual to his 
promise, came Willy Burke, and he fortun- 
ately found Father Fitzherbert alone, poring 
over some old papers. “ Well, Willy,” said 
the old man, ■yv'ith a benignant smile, “you 
are come to spend the last evening with the 
old priest. I expect Mr. Talbot here by and 


185 


by, as he was good enough to say he would 
come.” 

“ Then I must hurry and tell your reverence 
what I came for,” said Willy. “ I wouldn’t 
like Mr. Talbot to hear me. First, there’s 
your book, sir, and I’m for ever obliged to 
' you, not only for it but for all the fine books 
ever you lent me.” He laid he book on the 
table, and then drawing from the pocket of 
his overcoat a small parcel,he opened it quick- 
ly, and disclosed a very beautiful silver cruci- 
fix, some five or six inches long. “ This sir,” 
said he, ” is a little present that I would wish 
to send to Father Maloney, for you said you 
hoped to see him. You’ll be good enough to 
tell liim, sir, that it was Andy Burke’s chil- 
dren sent it as a small token of their gratitude, 
and to show him that they havn’t forgotten 
him.” * ■ 

“ But, Willy,” said the priest, “ I should 
rather tell my old friend that it was yourself — 
Willy Burke, his old favorite — that sent this 
beautiful present.” He spoke enquiringly, and 
Willy eagerly replied : 

“ Oh no, sir, by no manner of means. Sure 
didn’t Alice and Bridget put in a dollar, and 
as for poor Peter, sir, I wouldn’t for the world 
that Father Maloney would think that he’d 
forget him, any more than us. Oh, no, your 


186 


reverence, if you please, you’ll say — ‘Andy 
Burke’s children.’ ” 

“Well, well,” said the good priest, who was 
in reality much gratified by the result of his 
own question, “I’ll say whatever you wish my 
young friend. But what a beautiful thing this 
is, even apart from its religious value — the 
workmanship is exquisite.” 

“ Does your reverence indeed think so ?” 
said Willy, with a brightening countenance. 
“Then if I’m not glad it’s a wonder, for I just 
got another like it for your reverence, and I 
gave you Father Maloney’s first till I’d see 
what you thought of it. Won’t you take it. 
Father Fitzherbert ?” for he saw that the priest 
drew back, and remained silent. “Sure, sir, if 
you had seen the little girls when I told them 
of what I intended doing with the money — if 
you had seen how overjoyed they were, you 
wouldn’t have the heart to refuse it.” 

“ I do not mean to refuse your gift, my 
child,” said the priest, in a low voice, “though 
I confess myself unwilling to receive so costly 
a present from you, friendless orphans. But I 
well know the pleasure you have in giving it ; 
and I cannot bring myself to inflict upon you 
the pain of a disappointment.” 

“ Thank you, sir,” said Willy, as though he 
had just received some great favor. “And 


. 187 


now, your reverence, I’ll just trouble you with 
another little parcel for Ireland. There’s our 
old schoolmaster, sir, — Master Dogherty — Fa- 
ther Maloney will have him come to see you, 
— and I want to send him this prayer-book. — 
It’s one that I got for myself three or four 
months ago, and as it’s a nice gilt one, sir, and 
not a bit soUed yet, the old man will bo well 
pleased to get it all the road from America. I 
hope, your reverence, I’m not giving you too 
much trouble ?” 

“By no means, Willy,” and the old man 
Aviped away a tear as he spoke. “And now, in 
return, let me give you some adAuce that you 
may find beneficial. But, hush ! here’s Mr. 
'Talbot.” 

“ Oh then, your reverence, just give me 
your blessing and I’ll be off before he gets in,” 
and kneeling at the feet of the venerable man, 
he meekly bowed his head, and received the 
benediction, then rising, he darted from the 
room by one door just as Mr. Talbot entered 
by another. 


CHAPTER IX. 

WILLY BEGINS TO FIND FAVOR IN MR. WEI- 
MAR'S SIGHT. 

Father Fitzherbert was gone, and Willy 
Burke sadly fblt that he had lost a second fa- 


188 


thcr — ay, “lost,” said he to himself, “for, sure 
he looked like a corpse for some time past, and 
then when the doctors ordered him to go to 
Ireland for the good of his health, they must 
have thought him far gone — lost he is to me, 
then, I’m afraid ; and that’s the heavy loss all 
out; for who will advise me, and take the 
same trouble with me that he did. Father 
O’Hara, God bless him, seems just as kind and 
as fatherly, but he does’nt know us as poor 
Father Fitzherbert did, nor he can’t speak to 
us of our mother, and put us in mind of fol- 
lowing her example. Well! well! it’s God’s 
will, I see, that we’re to be left altogether to 
ourselves, and sure we have Him always to 
look to for comfort and support, so all we have 
to do is to keep His commandments before our 
eyes, and apply to Him when any trouble 
comes upon us ; there’s no use in grieving 
about what can’t be helped, and besides it’s 
sinful; it’s like rebelling against God’s holy 
•will. Courage, then ! ” And thus did he en- 
deavor to reason away his sadness, applying 
himself at the same time with renewed atten- 
tion to fulfil the duties of his state. It is true, 
his situation had latterly become far from com- 
fortable, owing to the persevering malice of his 
companions, who laid hold of every opportu- 
nity of anno3dng him, and that all the more 


189 


frequently, as they could not but see that he 
never made a complaint, although they con- 
stantly accused him of tattUng. Matters were 
in this position when, some weeks after Father 
Fitzherbert’s departure, Mr. Saunders one day 
beckoned Willy into the office where he was 
alone. Having looked around with all the 
cool caution of his countrymen, to ascertain 
that no one was listening, the clerk approached 
Willy Burke, who could not help wondering 
at all this preparation. “ I have not a moment 
to lose, Willy, in what I have to say, as Mr. 
Weimar wdll bo here presently. I have for 
some time past observed that you are subjected 
to a constant scries of annoyances, which, how- 
ever trilling they may bo in their nature, are 
calculated to make your position anything but 
comfortable. Your wages, too, are small — 
what think you, then, of taking a new situation, 
should you be offered one with higher wages ? ” 
WiUy was taken by surprise, yet he did not 
hesitate a moment in replying : “ No, Mr. 
Saunders ! — many thanks to you, sir, for being 
so thoughtful about me, but it is’nt wages 
w'ould tempt me to leave where I am ; and as 
for the trials that you speak of, sir, I can’t 
blame either Mr. Weimar or Mr. Talbot for 
any of them — neither of them knows the way 
Fm treated, and I’m sure if I was only to let 


190 


thorn know, they’d soon put a stop to it. So, 
I’ll not leave them on that account, Mr. Saun- 
ders.” 

Saunders was somewhat surprised, for he 
had eAudently expected to find his proposal 
even eagerly accepted. “ But,” said he, “ would 
you not like to get away from amongst these 
lads altogether ? In the place which I have in 
view for you, I can assure you, you will have 
no such annoyance on account of your religion.” 

“ Ah, sir,” returned Willy, with a smile, “ if 
I had’nt that to bear. I’d be sure to have some- 
thing else. Every Christian has to carry his 
cross, and when mine is so very light. I’m 
sure I necd’nt complain. If I had nothing to 
trouble me, sir, I might begin to forget God, 
but so long as one has little trials and vexa- 
tons to bear, the3’ have to bo asking grace from 
above to assist them.” 

“Well! I know not what to say to you, 
Willy ! ” said Saunders, after a moment’s re- 
fiection, “ I have never seen much of Catho- 
lics till I met Mr. Talbot, and I begin to think 
that the accounts given of you in books is not 
quite correct. Are these sentiments and prin- 
ciples of yours commonly inculcated by the 
Roman Catholic priests ? ” 

“ Why, then, Mr. Saunders ! what I’m after 
telling you, is just what I have heard from the 


191 


altar, and from my confessors, too, over since I 
could understand a word — sure it’s what every 
Catholic hears and is taught, from his infancy 
up, but, God help us, we don’t often put what 
the priests tell us in practice — if we did, sir, it 
wotdd be a different world altogether — at least 
\\'ith us (Sitholics.” 

“ I really begin to think so ! ” was the reply, 
for Saunders was, on the whole, a man of en- 
lightened mind, and liberal withal in his opin- 
ions. “ But, as a last word, Willy, your pre- 
sent wages are not at all equal to your deserv- 
ing — you begin to bo exceedingly useful here, 
and your scrupulous honesty renders you 
above all value to your employers. Think of 
what I have said, my young friend, and do not 
lightly cast away good luck.” 

“ You’re very good, sir,” said Willy, in a 
decided tone, “but I don’t want to think any 
more about the matter. When my present 
employers first took me in, I wasn’t worth so 
much to them as I am now ; and I suppose in 
the course of some time, if they’re pleased with 
me, they’ll give me a little advance. At any 
rate, Mr. Saunders, I’ll not leave them while 
they’re ^villing to keep me. Have you any- 
thing more to say to mo, sir, for I must go 
nDW to something I was bid do.” 

“ You not go yet, Willy Burke,” said a voice 


192 


that made both start, aad opening the door of 
a closet just behind the desk, ou: stepped Mr. 
Weimar. His face wore just the same expres- 
sion as usual, but there was a slight tremor in 
his shrill voice as he spoke. 

“ Now, Saunders,” said he, “ dere is no 
harm dat you leave us, when you> goin’ into 
bisness for your o^vn self — dat all well, an’ we 
not say you wrong ; but what for you try to 
make 'dis boy go, too, eh ? — you know him 
good boy — faithful boy — and don you make 
him leave us, and go vid you. I not expect 
dat from you, Saunders, and I very sorry, very 
sorry, indeed.” 

“ Well, Mr. Weimar,” said the clerk, by 
way of apology, “ you have so many young 
men in yoxir employment (and generally 
speaking they are very good, as the world 
goes) that I thought you might spare this 
young lad — the youngest of all.” 

“ Ay, but better you ask us first, if we vish 
to part him — dat be de fair way to do. Now, 
Willy Burke,” said the old man, and his voice 
became softer — perhaps unconsciously to him- 
self, — “ now, dis de second time dat we find 
you refuse to leave us — dis last time you were 
offered more -vages — you not consent, and you 
did right. Now, I veil pleased with you, and 
you shall have two dollars a month more dan 


193 


you had. But vat dese boys dey do to you — 
I not hear dat before 

“ Oh sir,” said Willy, “ I’d rather you 
wouldn’t ask me — it’s not worth talking about 
— and I woTildn’t on any account trouble you 
or Mr. Talbot with such little trifles. But, sir, 
about the wages, I’m very thankful to you — 
and if God spares me life and health I hope to 
prove my gratitude.” 

“ So you not tell me vat de young lads do to 
you ?” asked Mr. Weimar, the harsh lines of 
his wrinkled face relaxing into a smile of even 
kindly meaning. “ Ha ! ha ! me heard all 
you say to Saimders — dat your cross, eh ? — 
you not want to shake it off, eh ? Go off, you 
young papist — I not find you so strange now, 
since I know de reason why you act so.” And 
shaking his hand playfully at WUly, he sent 
him away, being desirous to speak with Saun- 
ders, w'ho was, indeed, about to commence bu- 
siness on his own account. 

When Willy found himself alone he raised 
his hands and eyes to heaven in fervent thanks- 
giving, for that God had so strengthened him 
in the moment of temptation. Although ^e 
had not the slightest suspicion that any one, 
much less Mr. Weimar, had been within hear- 
ng, yet it certainly increased his satisfaction 
that the conversation had been heard by him 

M 


194 


above all otliers. “ For, ” said he to' himself, 
“ Mr. Weimar used to think that there was 
scarcely a Catholic^to be depended on ; and I 
rejoice, on account of our holy religion, that 
ho is pleased with my conduct. Thanks and 
praises be to you, oh God, that kept me from 
doing what I should not do.” 

When he entered his room that night, what 
should he see, lying on the table, but a hand- 
some prayer-book — much more richly bound 
than that which he had sent to Master Doher- 
ty ; and when he ran to take it up and examine 
it, ho perceived, written on one of the blank 
leaves, in the front of the book — “ A present 
from Wm. II. Talbot to William Burke, being 
intended to replace the book sent to Ireland. 
Also, a mark of Mr. Talbot’s warm approval 
of still more recent good conduct.” 

AVilly stood gazing in silence on the precious 
volume, and gradually his cheeks assumed a 
crimson glow — then the tears rushed to his 
eyes, and for a moment he could scarce utter 
a word. After a little he fell on his knees : 

“Ah, then, may the Loid’s blessing and 
mine be about you, Mr. Talbot !” he exclaim- 
ed almost aloud, “ sure it’s j ourself that’s al- 
ways doin’ something to make people happy. 
Now, I’ll say a prayer for you please God, be- 
fore I begin my night prayers.” 


195 


After the prayers were all said, and Willy 
in his bed, he began to think how Mr. Talbot 
had found out about the sending of the prayer- 
book to Master Dogherty, and he saw at once 
that Father Fitzherbert had betrayed him. — 
“ But, then,” said he to himself, “ sure I know 
why his reverence did it — he wanted to make 
Mr. Talbot think well of me ; and, I suppose 
when he was telling, that he didn’ t forget 
about the crosses either. Well, well, its all 
for the best.” And with this consoling reflec- 
tion, he, closed his eyes and fell asleep. 

A few days after, Willy Bui-ke was agreea- 
bly surprised by a visit from his brother. It 
was Sunday afternoon — the weather beauti- 
fully flne, and Peter proposed a walk. “With 
all my heart,” said Willy, “ and when we are 
out we can go to see mother’s grave — it’s long 
since we went there together — and you can see 
the girls before we come back. They’re all 
the time wondering why you don’t conic as 
often as you used to do.” 

“ Well, about going to the church-yard,” 
said Peter, evading any reply to hi'i brother’s 
last remark, “ we can leave that till the next 
time I come. But I want particularly to see 
Alice and Bridget. Do you know they must 
be greatly improved, Willy, for Mrs. Watkins 
saw them a few days ago — on Wednesday, I 


196 


think — and she says they’re two nice little 
girls.” 

“And where did IMrs. "Watkins see them — if 
it’s a fair question ?” asked Willy, drily. 

“ '\Vhy, you know,” answered his brother, 
“ she often told mo that she’d like to see them, 
and so she sent and ordered a bonnet at Mrs. 
Williams’s and requested that either Bridget 
or Alice Burke might be sent home with it. — 
So Mrs. Williams sent the two as it was get- 
ting a little late in the evening. That’s the 
way she managed it, and when she talked a 
little while to the girls, she was so taken up 
with them that she can think of nothing else 
ever since.” 

“ Dear me,” said Willy, stUl more drily, 
“ how mighty easy it is to catch her fancy. — 
And so, I suppose, she could find in her heart 
to take one of them — or both for that matter — 
when they’re such nice Uttle girls — eh, Peter?’ ’ 

“ You’ve just guessed it,” said Peter. “She 
^says it’s the greatest pity in the world to see 
such girls as them in the way they are.” 

“ To be sure — that’s just what I’ve thought 
myself,” retorted Willy, with ironical gravity. 
“And so your good Mrs. Watkins sent you to- 
day to try and coax them to go to her. Now, 
tell the truth, Peter, — wasn’t that the reason 
why you came to see us ?” 


197 


“ Well ! did ever I see such a curious boy/ 
said Peter, evasively ; “ don’t you know very 
well I’d come of my own accord, and more 
shame for me if I wouldn’t.” 

“ Ay, shame, indeed — but then you needn’t 
be turning or shifting about it — you came to- 
day because Mrs. Watkins sent you — that’s 
the whole thing. And you say she’d take the 
two girls r” 

“ She’d take one — Alice she’d like best — and 
another lady, a friend of hers* a rich lady, too 
— would be glad to get Bridget ; and they’d 
bring them up so that they’d never have to do 
a hard day’s work. They’d be as well off as 
any ladies. ” 

“ Well, I don’t want to have them made la- 
dies of,” said Willy, quickly, — “I want them 
to get their decent trade learned, so that they’ll 
be able to do for themselves ; and I’d rather a 
thousand times see them working hard with 
Mrs. Williams — where they see nothing but 
what’s good — than to have them sitting up in 
idleness with Mrs. Watkins and the other ‘rich 
lady,’ learning nothing at all but how to turn 
up their noses at their best friends — and worse 
than all, to have them getting to be ashamed 
of being Catholics. And, for the matter of 
that, it’s not long they’d be so. No, no, Pe- 
ter ! you may go back and tell Mrs. Watkins 


198 


that they’re well enough where they are ; and 
that if they hadn’t a place that I liked, I’d give 
them every penny of my little w ages, and beg 
the clothes to cover me, sooner than let either 
of them go to her or any one like her. I’m 
sure w'e’ve got enough of Mr. and Mrs. Wat- 
kins already, and please God, they’ll not catch 
either Alice or Bridget. With God’s help, 
we’ll not lose the7n, poor little girls.”. He 
spoke bitterly, and more angrily than usual — 
and Peter replied, with a flushed cheek : 

“ And do you think I’m going to take your 
opinion for an answer — saucy fellow that you 
are ? — not I, indeed — I’ll go straight and see 
the girls themselves, and hear what they’ll 
say about it.” 

“ And I’ll go with you, then,” said Willy, 
in a milder tone — “ for I’m afraid you’re not 
to be trusted, Peter. You’re not sensible of 
the danger you’d bring them into.” 

“ AVell, this is too bad,” said the elder bro- 
ther, angrily, as they walked along together. 
“ Now, I’d like to know what are you making 
of all this great piety of yours. You that’s 
such a good Catholic all out — what good is it 
doing you ?” 

“ Why,” said Willy, “ if it goes to that,even 
in a worldly point of view, I’m just as well off 
as you are, though, God help you ! I’m afraid 


199 


you never stand up as you ought to do for 
your religion. I have a dollar a month now 
more than you have.” 

“ What,” asked Peter, turning short round, 
“ have they raised your wages again ? Oh, I 
see how it is,” he added contemptuously, “it’s 
Mr. Talbot that’s doing it, he wants to humor 
you up, and so Mr. Watkins says.” 

“ Well, Mr. Watkins may say what he 
will,’’ replied Willy, “ but it wasn’t Mr. Tal- 
bot that raised my wages either time — it was 
Mr. Weimar.” 

“ Why, how in the world did that happen?” 
asked Peter, evidently taken aback. And 
when Willy told him, he remained silent for 
a considerable time. He was thinking what a 
strange thing it was that his brother — two 
years younger than he — could so stoutly re- 
sist and even overcome temptation, while he 
was almost sure to give way, even at the very 
first assault. Yet, he would not acknowledge 
that such were his ideas , and when Willy, 
seeing a certain confusion in his face, and 
therefore partly guessed his thoughts, would 
have persuaded him to apply for grace and 
strength at the fountain of alf good, he cut 
him short by asking snappishly, ” what he 
meant.” 

“ Why, that you ought to go to confession, 


200 


Peter, and approach the holy communion a 
great deal oftener than you do ; indeed, I’m 
afraid you never go at all. Have you been to 
confession since Father Fitzherbert went 
away ?” 

“ No, I hav’nt,” was the reply, “ and I 
don't want to be worried about it. I’ll go 
when I think fit, and I’ll not go at all, if I 
don’t do it of my own accord. So don’t bother 
me about confession — confession, indeed! — 
I’m sure it’s the fine time I have of it with 
you about the same confession.” 

WiUy had been far from expecting such an 
answer, and it took him so much by surprise 
that he did not speak again till they reached 
Mrs. Williams’s house. They were reeeived 
by the good lady with all her usual cordiality, 
and the girls were doubly pleased to see their 
brothers once more together. But when Peter 
opened his negociation (which Willy purposely 
waited for him to do) the whole scene chang- 
ed. Mrs. Williams could scarcely restrain 
her indignation, and the little girls cried out 
with one voice : 

“ Is it leave Mrs. Williams ? — oh, no, Peter! 
— not for the world — unless she sends us 
away !” and both looked timidly at their ben- 
efactress. 

“ And that I’ll never do, children,” she said. 


201 


while the big tears trembled in her eye. “No 
— if I had only one dollar in the world — and 
I thank God I have a good round sum by me 
— I wouldn’t grudge you the half of it. They 
are not in New York this day I’d let you go 
to (without you were taken from me by them 
that had a right to do it) and least of all would 
I turn you over to the Watkins’s. It is nether 
to-day nor yesterday that I heard of their do- 
ings, with respect to Catholic orphans. VVhat 
do you think of this, Willy ?” 

Willy told her exactly what he had before 
told his brother, and added, “As for me, Mrs. 
Williams, I’m just of your notion about these 
people ; and I’d as soon see my sisters going 
into a house on fire as into theirs. So if you 
please, ma’am, you’ll not send them there any 
more on any account. While they’e under 
your care I have no fear about them, for it’s 
not only from what Father Fitzherbert told us 
about you, but from all that I have seen of 
you myself and heard from the girls.” 

“ With God’s help,” replied Mrs. Williams, 
“ I endeavor to do for them just what I would 
for my own children, and what I think their 
own worthy mother would approve of, were 
she living. I pray -with them — they go to 
church with me, and together we approach the 
holy sacraments. I send them daily to a good 


202 


school — not a proselyting school, Peter ! — and 
take every opportunity of explaining to them 
their duty to God, the world, and their own 
souls. They are learning the bonnet-making 
business morning and evening.” 

Peter knew not what to say — he was not yet 
so hardened as to stand up in defence of what 
his conscience told him was a bad cause, and 
he did no like, on the other hand to allow his 
brother so groat a triumph, neither could he 
bring himself to confess that he had been in 
the WTTong. 

“So I’m to tell Mrs. Watkins,” he said, ris- 
ing suddenly, “ that you all refuse her offer — 
this is her thanks for her kindness to our fa- 
mily.” 

“ Just tell her what you like,” replied Wil- 
ly, who was really indignant at his brother’s 
conduct. “ I don’t thank her in the least for 
hot kindness, for I know very well what she’s 
about. She has got one, more shame and sin 
for him, and I think she ought to be satisfied. 
At any rate she’ll not get either of' my sisters 
hooked, and so you may tell her if you wish. 
Come girls are you for a walk this evening ? — 
May they come, Mrs. Williams ?” 

“ Certainly,” was the answer, and in a few 
minutes the girls stood ready for ther walk. 

“ Are y'ou coming with us, Peter r” cn- 


203 


quired his brother, but Peter was far too an- 
gry to consent. 

“ No, indeed, that I am not,” he replied 
sharplj', “ an’ I can tell you it ■will be many 
a day before I’ll trouble any of you again. It 
is well for me that I’m not depending on my 
o\vn for friendship, or anything else.” And 
without deigning to notice his young sisters, 
who ran after him to the door beseeching him 
to stay, he hurried from the house. He had 
not gone far on his way home, when he came 
full against Wilson and Hamilton, whore they 
stood conversing at the corner of a street. 

“ Hillo, there, Peter !” cried Wilson, seeing 
that Burke was passing without seeming to 
notice them, “ Is this the way you treat old 
acquaintances ?” 

“ Oh, Mr. Wilson,” said Peter, stopping 
- short, “is this yourself? I’m sure I wasn’t 
thinking of seeing you here. How are you, 
Mr. Hamilton ?” 

“ First-rate, Peter, first-rate. But you seem- 
ed to be in a hurry — perhaps you havn’t time 
to stop.’! 

“ Oh, for that matter,” said Peter, “ I can 
stay as long as I please. I’m little less than 
my own master, particularly ou Sundays, for 
Mr. and Mrs. Watkins are so kind that-they 


201 


let me do what I please, and go wherever I 
like.” 

“ Ay,” observed Wilson, I know they have 
a great regard for you. I have often heard 
Mr. Watkins say that you are worth gold to 
him, from your smartness and fidelity.” 

’Wliy, I thought you didn’t know Mr. 
Watkins ?” said Peter, his face flushed with 
the joy of hearing this intelligence. 

“ Of course I do know himi and well too,” 
was the reply, “we belong to the same church 
— and whenever I do go there (which is not 
very often) I sit in the next pew to his. What 
an excellent man he is ; and I understand that 
Mrs, Watkins is a most amiable lady, though 
I have not the pleasure of knowing Aer, ex- 
cept by report.” 

“ Oh !” exclaimed Peter, earnestly, “ it 
would take me a whole day to tell you their 
kindness. I’m sure if I was their own son 
they couldn’t be much better to me than they 
are.’ ’ 

“ There, you see, Hamilton,” said Wilson, 
turning to his friend, with whom he exchang- 
ed a sly wink, “ it is just as I told you — if it 
wasn’t for that one thing they’d adopt him for 
their own at once. Such was the impression 
I received fmm Mr. Watkins’s wmrds. What 
a great pity it is that such an obstacle exists , 


205 


as with his talents and the influence of such a 
friend there’s no knowing what he might come 
to.” 

“ But surely,” remarked Hamilton, “the ob- 
stacle to which you allude cannot be irremedi- 
able. Peter Burke is not the lad to have his 
prospects blighted by silly prejudice. Now if 
it were his brother, I couldn’t venture to say 
as much, for really that boy is incurably blind 
to his own interest, and cannot be moved an 
inch out of his own old way — he is so stupidly 
ignorant.” 

Peter listened attentively as may well be be- 
lieved, and greedily swallowed every word of 
this well-managed dialouge, which failed not 
to produce its fullest effect on his weak mind. 

“Well, Pm sure I don’t understand what 
obstacle you mean,” he said. “ I do all I can 
to please Mr. Watkins, and if I didn’t I’d be 
very ungrateful. I don’t know, then, what 
he can have against me ?” 

“ Oh, it isn’t that he has anything against 
you,” said Wilson, quickly, “ for the obsta- 
cle to which I alluded is, as Matkins says, ra- 
ther your misfortune than your fault.” 

“ Why, then, what in the world can it be ?” 
cried Peter fairly at a loss, and full of curiosity 
as they expected he would. 

“Really I do not like to tell you,” said Wil- 


206 


son — “ we are so incessantly annoyed by your 
brother’s bigotry and the fuss he makes about 
the church, as he calls it, that one dreads to find 
you having some, at least, of his ‘old woman- 
ish’ notions.” 

“ Oh don’t be afraid,” said Peter, “ don’t 
be afraid. I’ll not quarrel with any one about 
religion. I leave that to master Willy, for if 
he chooses to make a fool of himself with his 
old Irish notions, that’s no reason w'hy I 
shouldn’t do better.” 

Wilson threw a significant glance at Hamil- 
ton, and both smiled. “ Such being the case,” 
observed Wilson, drawing closer to Peter, as 
they all three walked along together, “ I may 
venture to tell you that if you were not a Ca- 
tholic you would be the adopted son of Mr. 
Watkins, who having no children of his own 
would, of course, make you his heir — lucky 
fellow that you are. I wouldn’t tell you this 
before AVllly, because I know he’d never for- 
give me, and then he’d be sure to read you a 
lesson about submission lo the church, and 
threaten to tell the priest.” 

“ I tell you, ” said Peter, angrily, “ that I 
don’t care a straw about what he says, nor the 
priest neither, for the matter of that. I’ve 
been too long humbugged, and kept down with 
fear of ‘the priests,’ so I’ll just begin to think 


207 


and speak for myself ; and if Mr. Watkins has 
only that to complain of, you may tell him 
from me that I’m not such a fool as he takes 
me for.” 

“ Bravo, Peter !” cried Wilson, and “I give 
you joy, Burke !” said Hamilton, and both 
shook hands with him, one after the other, 
Peter feeling all the time as though he had 
shaken off on the moment a heavy burden, 
since he had found courage to assort, for the 
first time, his perfect independence. 

Just at this moment they reached the door 
of the Wesleyan Methodist meeting-house, and 
Wilson making a show of going in, said — 
“ What do you think, Peter, if you come in to 
hear ^Ir. Donaldson preach. lie is one of our 
crack speakers, and,” he added with a laugh, 
” claims none of that overweening authority 
that your popish priests do. Come in, like a 
good fellow, and hear what he has got lo say.” 

But Peter still hung back — the last tattered 
remnant of shame still clung around him, and 
he blushed deeply on hearing this proposal — 
“No, not this evening,” he said in a hurried 
manner, — “ it’s getting near our supper hour 
and I must go home.” 

“ Well, I’ll not press you for the present, 
but some other time you will come, for I wish 
you to hear Mr. Donaldson.” 


208 


“ Perhaps I may,” said Peter, “ but now I 
must bid you good evenin’.” 

“ Good evening, Peter,” said the two young 
men together, and Wilson added, “ See that 
you don’t let Willy scold you into your old 
folly !” 

“Never fear — never fear,” was the decided 
answer. “ I’ll be my own master for the time 
to come.” And away he went. The two 
friends stood looking after him till he was out 
of hearing, when both laughed heartily. 

“ How eagerly he snapt at the bait,” said 
Hamilton — “ and how adroitly you did hook 
him — one Avould really think you were inti- 
mately acquainted with Mr. Watkins, such a 
face of truth did you put on your story.” 

“Ay, revenge is a powerful instigator,” re- 
turned Wilson, with a laugh : “ I was all the 

time thinking of the pain this would cause 
Willy Burke to feel, and how much he will 
think himself disgraced by his brother’s apos- 
tacy. That is all that I have in view. So long 
as I succeed in mortifying him I don’t care a 
straw whether this wise brother of his is a pa- 
pist or a bible Christian — he may go to the de- 
vil for me, if I can only revenge myself on his 
saucy brother, for all liis tattling and story car- 
rying.” 

Well ! now that you have gained your end 


03 


for this time,” said Hamilton, ^laughing again, 
“ I suppose worthy Mr. Donaldson may preach 
to whoever is willing to listen, — of course, 
we’re not going to sit there'for an hour, or as 
long as it may please him^to hold forth. A’nt 
we going over to Wdliamsburgj^as we had 
proposed doing r” 

“ Of course we are,” was the reply, “ I’d 
see the prosy old fellow far enough before I’d 
deprive myself of the^trip, for the purpose of 
hearing him rail^gamst^popery. I hate it as 
much as he does, — of that I’m quite sure ; but 
he can say nothing new about it, and we’re all 
tired of hearing the same old^ stories^ repeated 
day after day, with only occasional^variations 
just to make people listen.” 

“Come along, then, Georgey lad!” and off 
went the hopeful pair to Williamsburg. 

'rhat same evening when Willy returned 
home, after taking tea at Mrs. Williams’s, he 
Avas surprised to find almost all the young men 
assembled in,the sitting-room,' for' they^ were 
all in the;habit of staying out ^even later on 
Sunday evenings than any other. “Why» 
you’re all in eai’lier than usual to-night,” said 
he, — “ I declare I’m almost the last myself. I 
hope we’re all going to reform,” he added 
jestingly. 

“ If we an’t,” said Wilson, Avith a sneer, “ I 

N 


know who is. I know of one papist at least 
who is already more than half converted from 
the errors of popery.” 

More shame for him, then, whoever he is,” 
said Wniy quietly, for he be^an to see that 
there was a design upon him, and was deter- 
mined to keep his temper with God’s assis- 
tance. “ He was never a good Catholic, if he’s 
now going to be any thing else, and the Church 
will be well rid of him.” 

“ Not so fast, my good fellow,” said Wilson, 
in a tone of exultation, “ not so fast, if you 
please, for its your o\\ti brother I mean.” 

Willy Burke turned pale, and anon red as 
scarlet, — he much feared that what Wilson said 
was but too true, yet he would not seem to 
believe it possible, and swallowing his emotion 
as he best could, he said with a laugh, it was 
a forced laugh, too ; — “ It’s all very well, Mr. 
Wilson ! you can crack your jokes on me as 
long as you please, so long as it’s only myself 
you attack, I don’t care.” 

“ But this is no joke, I assure you, Willy !” 
replied the other^ “ Hamilton can tell you that 
as well as I, for we both had it from your 
brother himself. He told us this very evening 
that he’s going to become a Protestant, hoping 
that Mr. Watkins wUl reward him by mak- 
ing him his heir. He deceives himself, poor 


211 


fellow, for that gentleman has a nephew in 
Savannah, who will inherit his fortune, as a 
matter of right.” 

An ashy paleness now spread itself over 
Willy’s face, and unable longer to preserve his 
composure, he would fain leave the room, for 
he found it difficult to restrain his tears. He 
arose in silence, and was walking towards the 
door, repressing his emotion as much as he 
possibly could, when Wilson’s tittering laugh 
grated on his ear, and turning quickly round 
he saw that almost every face wore a look of 
gratified malice. “ God forgive you, Mr. Wil- 
son,” he said, with a quivering lip, and a trem- 
ulous voice. “ I don’t know why it is that 
you all seem to hate me as you do, for I’m 
sure I never did nor said you wrong. God 
grant that j'ou don’t draw down punishment 
on yourselves ! ” 

It was in the midst of a general burst of 
laughter that Dawson, w'ho had taken no part 
in the conversation, stepped forward and took 
Willy by the hand, saying in a kind tone : “ I 
hope, Willy, that you’ll not set me down as 
one of your tormentors, for I do assure j'ou that 
I’m sorry to see you receive such treatment. 
Believe me, I can and do sympathize with you 
as regards youi* brother’s apostacy — if the news 
be true, as we are assured it is — for I know and 


212 


respect yoiir ardent love of religion. Your ex- 
ample goes far to convince me that your’s is 
the true faith, and, with God’s help, I will, 
from this night forward, set about seeking the 
truth.” 

Having thus openly expressed his opinion. 
Dawson turned and bade a cold “ good night ” 
to the other young men, who were struck 
dumb, it would appear, by this unexpected in- 
cident, and he left the room with Willy. The 
latter almost forgot his own sorrow, in his joy 
to hear such sentiments from one whom he had 
so long considered as blindly prejudiced against 
the Church. Greater still was his surprise 
when Dawson, before they separated for the 
night, asked him to procure for him some 
books which might instruct him on the doc- 
trines of the Catholic Church ; a request w’ith 
whieh he willingly promised to comply, as may 
well be believed. 


CHAPTER X. 

THE CRUCIFIX. 

It was matter of agreeable surprise to Willy 
that from that time forward a marked change 
for the better was visible in all his companions, 
Wilson not excepted. He was no longer treat- 
ed -ftith that contempt which it had so long 


213 


been his lot to bear, and if a sly sarcasm did 
once in a while meet his ear, directed either 
against his religion or himself, it had no longer 
the bitterness which formerly characterized all 
such discourse addressed to him in the house. 
This change w'as, indeed, most welcome to 
poor Willy, coming as it did at a time when ho 
was harassed w'ith anxiety about his brother, 
and he hailed the unw'onted civility of his 
companions with thankfulness and joy. Wil- 
son was now, above all others, the most cheer- 
ful, and nothing could exceed his kindness to 
Willy, whom he jocularly called his protege, 
“ for,” said he, “ you have actually converted 
me from the error of my ways, and I owe you 
so much gratitude that I shall lor the future 
declare myself your friend on all occasions, 
and defend you from all possible attacks on the 
score of religion, although I do not intend to 
become a Catholic — ^just yet.” 

Willy Burke smiled, and professed himself 
very grateful for the good intentions of his new 
friend, although he could not but find the 
change rather sudden. “ I can’t understand it 
at all,” would he say to himself, “ but then 
what good would it do him to make a show of 
bein’ my friend, an’ only his heart is entirely 
changed, he surely would’nt treat me so dif- 
ferently from what he did before.” 


214 


Things had gone on in this way for at least 
two weeks. Dawson had gone through sev- 
eral small works on Catholic doctrine, which 
Willy had borrowed from Father O’PIara, and 
already the light of divine truth was begimiing 
to shine on his mind, so long darkened by pre- 
judice, and overshadowed by the clouds of 
error. The young man himself talked little to 
the others of the gradual change his mind was 
undergoing, for he knew them better than 
Willy did, and he evidently placed but little 
confidence in their present show of liberality. 

One evening Willy had asked permission of 
Mr. Talbot to go see after his brother, and was 
just returned, saddened and disappointed, not 
having been able to see Peter, when he was 
told that Mr. Weimar and Mr. Talbot were 
both in the sitting-room, waiting for his return. 
It was very near the usual supper hour, and it 
was a strange time for the gentlemen to come ; 
besides, ^Ir. Weimar had never been to the 
house since Willy Burke had been its inmate. 
And then the idea of their waiting for him 
throw him into a tremor which almost deprived 
him of the power of motion. 

“Waiting to see me!” he repeated, in a 
faint voice, “ why, what do they want with 
me at this hoiu: ? ” 

“ I don’t know, I’m sure ! ” was the reply 


f 

215 

of Hamilton, for it was he who opened the 
door. “ But they do seem pretty anxious for 
your coming.” 

“ Well, then. I’ll go, in God’s name ! ” said 
Willy, and opening the door, he entered the 
sitting-room. His first look was at Mr. Talbot, 
and he was shocked to see that gentleman wear 
a sternness of aspect all unusual with him . 
Mr. Weimar was pacing the room to and fro 
with a restless air, but his countenance, always 
fixed and rigid, gave no indication of what was 
passing in his mind. All the young men were 
present, and as Willy glanced arormd he fan- 
cied that every face wore a sort of incipient 
sneer. Dawson alone looked kindly on him, 
but even he spoke not a word. There was ev- 
idently something unusual going forward, and 
WiUy felt chilled, though he knew not why. 
Mr. Weimar was the first to speak, and his 
tones were harsh — even harsher than their 
wont. 

“ You keep us too long waiting,” he said, 
“but you not tink to find us here, eh ? ” 

“No, indeed, Mr. Weimar,” answered Wil- 
ly, “I didn’t expect to see either you or Mr. 
Talbot here.” 

“You guess why we come, eh ? What you 
tink brought us ? ” 

“ Well, I don’t know, sir,” said Willy, and 


216 


his voice trembled slightly. “ I hope there’s 
nothing wrong ? ” 

“ Yes, dere is someling wrong, sir ! ” said 
Weimar, mimicking his tone, “and I tink you 
know it, too. What you do with dat parcel 
, Jlr. Talbot give you to-day for mo at de office 
door — where you put it, eh ? ” 

“ I put it on your desk, sir,” said Willy, and 
the color left his cheek, for he began to fear 
that his misgivings were but too well founded. 

“ On my desk, eh ? I see no parcel dere. 
Where was I, when you put it on my desk ? ” 
asked Weimar, with increasing sternness in 
his voice. 

“ You were gone to dinner, sir. Mr. Talbot 
knew that, too, and he told me to lay it where 
I did, so that you'd see it the first thing when 
you came in. I put it on the big book, sir, 
that was lying open on the desk.” 

“ And de big book eat it up, eh ? Now, I 
much afraid dat you be one deceitful young 
rogue, Burke. Did any one see you put dat 
parcel — I s’poso you know very well dat it was 
money — on my desk ? — was any one in do 
office?” 

“No, sir,” said Willy, and his thick, husky 
voice bespoke emotion, “ there was no one in 
the office at the time, for Mr. Talbot gave me 


217 


th.e key to open it. But sure, sir, the parcel 
can’t be lost ?” 

“ I much fear it is, Willy,” said Mr. Talbot, 
speaking for the first time, “ that is, unless 
you can find it for us : and it contamed a large 
sum of money.” 

“ He know dat very well, de young rascal,” 
interrupted Weimar, angrily — “ dere is no use 
asking more questions — he take de money — I 
see dat plain enough. Now, if you don’t give 
up dat money dat you pilfer, I’ll send dis very 
minute for de police and den you go to prison.” 
This throat was made with a vehemence which 
would have seemed foreign to the German’s 
disposition, and ho even shook his hand me- 
nacingly at Willy, but the latter scarcely heed- 
ed it. Turning to Mr. Talbot who still sat si- 
lent and stern with his arms resting on the ta- 
ble, he said : 

“ And do you believe this, Mr. Talbot ? — do 
you suspect me of stealing away this parcel — 
money I didn’t know it was imtil you told me 
just now what was in it ?” 

“ How can I believe you innocent, Willy ?” 
and ilr. Talbot heaved a deep-drawn sigh as 
he spoke. “ Here, I gave you this parcel 
(with the key of the office, knowing that Mr. 
Weimar was not there) and directed you to 
placo it on the writing desk. You brought 


218 


me back the key in a few minutes and told me 
you had done as I ordered, but when Mr. 
Weunar, with his own key, opened the office 
door and went in, a short time aftor,the parcel 
was not there. And then your asking permis- 
sion to go out this evening on pretence of see- 
ing your brother — altogether the matter wears 
a bad aspect. Would that I covM believe you 
•guiltless of this crime, for I am sorry, heartily 
soiTy, to find you — you, Willy Burke — so far 
different from what you seemed to be.” 

“Well, Mr. Talbot,” said Willy Burke, in 
a tone where reproach was blent with deep 
sorrow, “ I thought you’d be the last to believe 
me guilty — not because I’m any better than 
another, for God knows lam not — but because 
you know very well that I try all I can to do 
and say what religion teaches. I could bear 
all — all — they might send me to prison and 
punish me any way they like — though the 
Lord knows I’m as innocent of this crime as 
the chQd unborn — so long as you didn’t believe 
me guilty ; — but for xjou — you, Mr. Talbot, that 
was more like a father than a master to me — 
for you to suspect me of such a deed as this, 
oh ! indeed, sir, it goes to my very heart.” — 
And the big tears trickled unheeded from his 
eyes. Yes, it was evident that the heaviest 
blow of all was Mr. Talbot’s seeming readiness 


219 


to believe him guilty. That gentleman him- 
self was even visibly touched by this apparent- 
ly sincere sorrow, but still facts were so strong 
against Willy that he dare not listen to the 
promptings of his generous heart. 

“I repeat,” said he, “ that lam truly sorry 
that suspicion should rest on you, and doubly 
sorry shall I be if you are found to deserve it. 
But what say these young men ?” he added, 
turning to some of the others. “ Has any of 
you seen or heard any thing this day that might 
throw light on this unfortunate occurrence ?” 

“ Ay,” said Weimar, “ can any one give de 
— de — what you call dat ? — testimony against 
dis boy, for he goes to prison dis very night, so 
sure as I live.” 

Being thus addressed, one of the lads, Henry 
Davis, stepped forward and said, though with 
well-feigned reluctance, that he had seen Willy 
Burke put a small parcel in his pocket before 
he left the warehouse, though ho could not 
see what it contained. 

“ Was that the one you saw, Henry ?” asked 
Dawson, coming suddenly forward, and taking 
a small parcel from his pocket. 

“ I can’t say, it might have been.” 

“ Because Willy Burke gave me this, just 
before he went out, when I met him at the 
door, and the gentlemen can see for them- 


220 


selves what it contains.” He opened it, and 
laid on the table a small book : it was “ The 
Grounds of the Catholic Doctrine.” “ This is 
the parcel, Henry, that you saw Willy Burke 
put in his pocket ; for he had laid it aside on 
a shelf until it* was time to leave the ware- 
house. And, gentlemen,” he added, turning 
respectfully to the merchants, “ notwithstand- 
ing the apparent difficulty in believing him in- 
nocent, I do venture to say that in my opinion 
the poor lad is innocent of the crime laid to his 
charge. I solemnly declare that I could 
scarcely be brought to believe him guilty of 
"even a much more trifling misdemeanor. And 
if I had ten thousand dollars I would stake it 
on his innocence being established.” 

“ God reward you, Mr. Dawson !” exclaim- 
ed Willy Burke, “ an’ I hope you’ll never want 
a friend in yovn hour of need.” 

“ Well, George,” said Mr. Talbot, address- 
ing Wilson, “ what have you got to say in this 
matter, for I see you have been some time 
watching your opportunity to speak ?” 

All eyes were now turned on Wilson, who 
came slowly forward, as though the task be- 
fore him was excessively repugnant to his feel- 
ings. “ Gentlemen !” said he, “ I have been 
some years in your employment, and have found 
you uniformly generous as well as just ; it 


221 


■would ill become me, therefore, to remain si- 
lent when I am conscious that I have it in my 
power to do you a service. Some people may 
be induced through a 'false pity!” here he 
glanced at Dawson, “ or some other less excu- 
sable motive, to connive at guilt, and even at- 
tempt to screen it from punishment, but this 
I cannot do, and I therefore, tell you, — 
though I regret the necessity which compels 
me so to do — that Willy Burke is a far differ- 
ent character from what you suppose him to 
be, and I have not the least doubt but that he 
really took this money, ■n'hatcver he may have 
done with it. Hamilton, will you tell the gen- 
tlemen what you saw him do to-day?” 

Hamilton then stated that he had chanced 
to be doing something in a kind of recess which 
was nearly opposite the office door, ■when ho 
saw Willy Burke enter and close it after him. 
In a few minutes he came out, and after hav- 
ing locked the door, he distinctly saw him put 
his hand into the breast pocket of his coat, as 
though to ascertain the safety of something, 
and then buttoning his coat closely, he walked 
quickly away. “ Of course,” said Hamilton, 
“ I thought no more about the circumstance 
till I heard of the missing parcel, when it oc- 
curred to me at once.” 


222 


“ Now I declare in the presence of God,” 
said Willy his checks flushed with honest in- 
dignation, “ and before all the saints in heaven, 
that I do not remember to have done as Mn 
Hamilton says I did. I neither put my hand 
in my bosom, nor buttoned up my coat, — and 
that’s as true as that I’m standin’ here !” 

Mrs. Malcolm was now called in, and was 
asked whether Willy Burke had gone up to 
his room after coming from the warehouse be- 
fore he went. The housekeeper was no little 
surprised by the question, and the serious 
manner in which it was put, but she answered 
at once that he had, — he just went up for a few 
minutes, and then went out in a hurry, sajdng 
that he would be back by the time supper was 
ready, if he possibly could. 

“Here now, Talbot ! said Weimar exulting- 
ly, “ what you say to dat, eh?” 

“ I say,” replied Talbot,“ that we had better 
go at once and search his room, since he de- 
nies ha\dng taken the money, we must pro- 
ceed with such steps as may lead to its discov- 
ery. You will please light us up stairs, Mrs. 
Malcolm, to Willy Burke’s room.” 

“Certainly, sir!” said the housekeeper, and 
forthwith she fetched a lamp. 

“ But will ye just let me say one word, gen- 
tlemen ?” Mr. Talbot nodded assent, and 


223 


Weimar stopped to listen, his foot resting on 
the first step of the stairs. 

“ Now I understand that you’re suspecting 
this puir laddie, Burke, of purloining some- 
thing, and you may baith tak’ an auld woman’s 
word for it, that he never did ony sic like thing. 
Na, na, — Willy Burke fears God, and serves 
him too with all his heart ; and sic like folks 
are never found breaking His commandments. 
I tell you, — and you’ll find my words true, — 
that Willy Burke is innocent, let who may be 
guilty !” 

“ I should be happy, indeed, Mrs. Malcolm ! 
to find it so !” said Mr. Talbot, as he motioned 
to Mr. Weimar to go on, “but unfortunately 
there is strong proof against him.” He then 
called to Willy, and a few of the other young 
men to go up with him, and Mr. Weimar, while 
Mrs. Malcolm brought up the rear, muttering 
as she went : — 

“ I dinna care a button for their proof, — I’ll 
never believe him guilty, unless I saw it with 
my ain eyes !” 

“ And probably you may see it with your 
own eyes, Mrs. Malcolm;” said Wilson taunt- 
ingly, as he walked just before her. “What 
will you say then to your favorite r” 

“Why just this,” returned the housekeeper 
snappishly, “ that the puir laddie has enemies 


224 


bad enough, to do any thing they can to black- 
en him, and if truth maun out, Mr. Georgie 
Wilson ! I’d sooner suspect your ainself, for I 
ken believe you’d do amaist ony thing lo iiif 
jure him though he never injured you.” 

“ Have a care what you say, Mrs. Malcolm,” 
said Wilson almost aloud,forgetting all caution 
in his anger, and turning to her with a flushed 
check and a menacing air, “ I’d advise you to 
keep a civil tongue in your head, or you may 
chance to And ” 

What all dis about?” cried Weimar, from the 
top of the stairs ; “ Who make dat noise dere 
below ?” 

“ Mrs. Malcolm and myself were just speak- 
ing of some little matter belonging to the 
house, sir ! said Wilson quickly, and he looked 
significantly at the house-keeper, but the lat- 
ter was in no humor to heed the signal, and 
she said in a still louder voice, as she reached 
the last step, and stood beside Mr. Weimar, 
where he awaited them. 

“ You need na be winkin’ or blinkin’ at me, 
Mr. Wilson. I tell you over and over again 
that I’d sooner suspect any one of you than 
him ; an’ its my firm conviction that it will all 
come out to be a vile plot. Hear you that, 
now ?” 

“ Hush, hush, Mrs. Malcolm !” interposed 


225 


Mr. Talbot, soothingly, “let ns, if possible, 
probe the matter to the bottom, so that the 
truth may appear— but till then we had better 
say as little as possible.” 

Just then they all entered Willy Burke’s 
room, and Jlr. Weimar himself set about 
making the proposed search. In the first 
place he asked Willy for the key of his little 
trunk, which was cheerfully given. The trunk 
was searched, but nothing was seen that could 
excite the least suspicion. The bed was next 
examined but with the same success, and in 
short every spot n ithin the chamber, where 
the smallest parcel could be concealed under- 
went the strictest examination, — Mr. Weimar, 
as he proceeded, throwing many an angry look 
at Willy where he stood leaning against the 
wall. It was evident that the German had 
hoped much from this search, for at every 
fresh disappointment he grumbled out : “What 
de deevil ! de money not here — de young rob- 
ber make away wid it when he go out dat 
time.” 

All this time Willy had not spoken a word 
nor manifested the slightest anxiety,and when 
the fruitless investigation of the room was con- 
cluded, Mr. Weimar said to him : “You take 
dis matter very cool — you not de least fright- 
ened, eh ? You tink, I ’spose, dat when we 

o 


226 


not lind de money here, you all right ; but wc 
see dat ; we make you confess dis great robbery, 
dat we will ; you go to jail dis very hour.” 

“ Well, sir,” said Willy, in a firm but re- 
spectful tone, “ I can only tell you again that 
I am innocent ; and as you have so much rea- 
son to suspect me, I suppose I have nothing to 
expect but what you threaten me with. Its 
hard, sir, very hard that I must be sent to jail, 
— not that I’d complain on my own account, 
but for the disgrace it is to the good father and 
mother that reared me, and to the holy religion 
I profess ; but then if its the will of God I must 
submit without a murmur, an’ I don’t blame 
you, gentlemen, if you do put me in prison, 
for I know that as every thing stands now, you 
can’t but think me guilty. But, Mr. Weimar, 
you’re tmder a mistake, sir, if you think that 
I’m grieved and troubled about this ; I am in- 
indeed,sir, both sorry and ashamed that such a 
thing should even be laid to the charge of my 
father’s son ; but I’m not a bit afraid on my 
own account, for I know that God will bring 
the truth to light in his own good time, and 
till he does, I’m content to be treated as if I 
was guilty.” 

“ But,” said Mr. Talbot, who could not help 
receiving a favorable impression from Willy’s 
words and maimers, “ but since you so stren- 


uously declare yourself innocent, have you no 
suspicion of the real offender?” 

“ God forbid, Mr. Talbot,” was the reply, 
“ that I’d suspect any one of cominiting such 
a crime, much less mention any name. Oh ! 
no, sir, it’s bad enough for one to be set down 
as guilty, and not to be bringin’ in another. — 
All I have to say is that I put the parcel where 
you told me, sir, on Mr. Weimar’s desk, and 
then locked the door after me and brought you 
back the key. I neither saw nor heard any 
one in or about the office ; and, indeed, I don't 
know how any one could get in to take it away 
before Mr. Weimar came back, for the other 
door of the office — the one leading from the 
warehouses, is almost always locked.” 

“Well this is really rmaccountable,” ob- 
served Mr. Talbot to his partner. “ Here is 
this lad, in the simplicity of his heart, lessen- 
ing the chance of shifting suspicion from him- 
self, by assuring us that he neither saw nor 
heard any one about the office, and even that 
the inner door was locked — at least he thought 
so. Surely this does not look like guilt ?” 

Weimar was about to answer, and his looks 
denoted impatience, when suddenly he ap- 
proached Willy and said. “ What is dat ting 
dat make a bulk dere in your breast ? Open 
your coat — dere’s some ting in dat pocket — 


228 


let us see what it is — ha, ha ! de secret will 
come out now, I tink.” 

Every eye was now turned on Willj'’s bo- 
som, where sure enough there was a very per- 
ceptible protuberance, as if of some parcel 
thrust into the breast pocket of his coat. Even 
Mrs, Malcolm trembled, and the young men 
could scracely refrain from laughing out in the 
glee of exultation. Mr. Talbot said nothing 
but a slight flush was on his cheek, as he 
watched the changing countenance of the lad, 
and waited to see what he really dreaded — the 
confirmation of his suspicions. But Willy 
showed no sign of either fear or confusion. 

“Here, Mr. Weimar,” he said, hastily un- 
buttoning the round jacket which he wore — 
“ here, sir, you can search my pockets — ay ! 
every one of them. There is something in this 
breast-pocket, sir, but you can take it out your- 
self, an’ then you’ll see what it is.” Weimar 
thrust in his hand and drew forth, not the 
missing parcel, but a small ebony crucifix, 
worn and old, as though it might have be- 
longed to a by-gone age. 

“ Why, vat de deevil is dis ?” cried Weimar, 
as he held the crucifix aloft, amid the sup- 
pressed tittering of the young men, with the 
single exception of Dawson, “Vat dis ting dat 
he carry in his pocket ? Oh, dis some papist 


229 


idol^ — I forget de name — vat you «all it, eh, 
Talbot ? 

“ That is a crucifix,” replied Talbot, calmly 
— “ but you mistake, my friend, in calling it 
an idol, — it is merely J representation of our 
Lord’s passion and death.” 

“ Yes, yes, ” said the other, quickly, “ but 
vat’s de use, ch ? Vat good dis — vat you call 
it — dis presentation, eh ? 

“ Representation,” said Talbot, again. 

“ Ay, dat’s a long word — veil vat good in 
• dis ting ? Why he carry it in his pocket ?” 

“ Really, I do not know,” rejoined Talbot. 
“ The first part of your question I could easily 
answer, but why Willy Burke carries it about 
so I cannot tell you, for it is by no means usual 
with us Catholics to have crucifixes of that size 
upon our person. Answer Mr. Weimar’s ques- 
tion, Willy,” he added, and his voice had al- 
most all its usual softness, for he became more 
and more convinced that Willy had been 
wronged. 

“ Well, sir,” said Willy, “I just put it in 
my pocket when I was going to see my bro- 
ther this evening, and, to tell you the truth, 
it was for it I came in to the house after I left 
the warehouse. I don’t carry it with me any 
other time, for it hangs on that nail at the head 
of my bed.” 


230 


“ And vat you bring it out dis evening for ?” 

“ I wanted to show it to my brother, sir,” 
and for the first time "Willy Burke hung his 
head, while his very forehead assumed a crim- 
son hue. 

“ Your broder — he never see it before — de 
old ting — vat you call ‘presentation,’ eh ? — 
vat you show it to him for — tell me dat ?” 

“ Mr. Talbot,” said poor Willy, turning in 
his distress to that gentleman, and his eyes 
filled with tears, “ Mr. Talbot, I’d rather, if 
you please, sir, that Mr. Weimar wouldn’t put 
this question to me, if you’d be good enough 
to ask him.” 

“ Nay,” said, Mr. Talbot, “ jmu had better 
answer the question — I myself am desirous to 
hear your reason for bringing the crucifix to 
jmur brother, for I see there is something un- 
usual in the case.” 

“Well, sir,” and Willy spoke with diffi- 
culty, for tears were choking him, “ poor Pe- 
ter, I’m afraid, is in a bad way this time back, 
an’ if what I heard the other evening be true, 
his soul is in great danger of being lost, so as I 
had tried everyway that I could think of to make 
him begin a new life, but all to no purpose, I 
just took it into my head that maybe the sight 
of this crucifix might have some effect on his 
mind — if it wouldn’t I might give him up for 


231 


lost.” Here Willy stopped, for he could not 
speak another word, but Mr. Talbot quickly 
caught him up : 

“ Alas,” sighed Talbot, as though thinking 
aloud, “ when the heart is hardened by a 
course of sin, or steeled by the prejudice of er- 
ror, how little is it touched by the sight of any 
religious sjTnbol. To such, a crucified Saviour 
is any thing but dear or precious, since their 
daily and hourly life, as they cannot but feel, 
is a continual insult offered to Him — the Man- 
God.” 

“ Yes ! but Mr, Talbot,” said Willy, “ if 
this was any other crucifix but the one it is, 
I wouldn’t have thought of such a thing, but 
it’s an old family-piece, sir, an’ every one of 
our family that died since he or I remembers, 
this very crucifix was put in their hands when 
they were leaving this world. Above all, sir,” 
here the poor fellonv’s voice sank almost to a 
whisper, “ above all, Mr. Talbot, we both saw 
it put in my father’s hand, and in my mother’s 
when they were dyin’, and lain pn their bo- 
som when they were dead, and that’s the rea- 
son why I thought that if the sight of it would 
not soften his heart, and make him love our 
holy religion, nothing in this world would. — 
But the worst of it was, sir, that I didn’t see 


232 


Peter at all — he wasn’t -vinthin, or at least they 
told me so.” 

“ Dat one great pity,” said W eimar, burst- 
ing into a kind of cackling laugh peculiar to 
himself, and forgetting his money and his an- 
ger for the moment. “Your broder have great 
loss, eh ? Now, you papists are aU fools — 
fools every one. And so you tink your piece 
of black wood — dat cross — could change your 
broder, and make him good Cat’lic, eh ? — dat 
good fun.” 

His laugh was echoed by Wilson and Ha- 
milton and their fidends, while Dawson looked 
reprovingly at them. Mrs. Malcolm could no 
longer restrain her indignation — wiping away 
with her white apron the tears which Willy’s 
simple explanation had called forth, she said 
aloud and with uiifeigned anger : , 

“You gracelees pack o’ ne’er do weels ! 
how daur ye laugh at the puir laddie sae ? — 
when you hae na the grace to believe as he 
does, ye shall at least hae the manners not to 
laugh at him for having the fear of God and 
the love of religion in his heart ” 

“You forget, good Mrs. Malcolm,” said 
Weimar, angrily, “ dat your pious laddie has 
stolen our money — but we’ll send him vere he 
deserves to go, and let him see if his cross — 


233 


dat piece of black wood dcre — vill take him 
out. Go off some one for de police.” 

In vain did Mrs. Malcolm beg, even with 
tears, that the matter might be examined far- 
ther before such a decisive stop was taken, and 
even Mr. Talbot suggested that it might be 
postponed till the following day. No, no. 
Weimar was determined, and would not hear 
a word. 

“ Well, gentlemen, ” said Mrs. Malcolm — 
“ since I find that you, at least Mr. Weimar, 
is determined to push it as far as he can against 
this puir fatherless and motherless bairn, I 
canna refrain from say in’ that ye’re a goin’ to 
commit a grievous sin — ho’s no more guilty 
than I am, I see that plainly, and something 
tells me that the culprit is here present.” 

Every one stared at her, and Mr. Weimar 
asked her what she meant. She made him no 
reply, for her eyes had been fixed on Wilson’s 
face with a look of intense scrutiny, and when 
she saw him shrink before her, and his whole 
face become red as scarlet, she cried out aloud, 
pointing to him with her finger : “Look there, 
Mr. Weimar ! — look there, Mr. Talbot ! — I’d 
wager my best new gown that there's guilt, for 
it’s an auld sa3dng that ‘ a guilty conscience 
needs no accriser.’ Look at Am, I say, and 
then look at Wdly Burke. Do you see ony 


signs o’ confusion or shame about him ? — na, 
na, for he’s innocent ; but, Georgia Wilson, I 
say, before God and man, an’ I care na Avha 
hears it, that you took away that parcel to 
have the blame fall on Willy Burke.” 

“It’s a lie, a black, malicious lie, you old 
papist hag,” cried Wilson, turning pale with 
anger. “ You need not try to screen the young 
rascal, for the gallows will have its due. How 
dare you accuse me of any such thing ? I told 
you a little while ago, and I tell you again, to 
beware how you talk to me in such a way.” 
And he shcok his clenched fist at the old wo- 
man, who only smiled at his impotent anger. 

Suddenly Mr. Talbot, Avho had been a close 
though silent observer, of this last episode, w'as 
sren to beckon Mr. Weimar apart. After a 
few words spoken together they came forward, 
and Weimar said in an authoritative tone : 

“ Mrs. Malcolm, you show us to Mr. Wil- 
son’s room. Wilson, you give me de key of 
your trunk.” 

“ I haven’t it about me sir,” was the con- 
fused reply. 

“ Find it for me, and dat quickly too.” 

“Well, really, Mr. Wiemar,” said Wilson, 
Avith increasing embarrassment, “ I must pro- 
test against my trunk being examined. I do 
not recognise your right to take such a liberty. 


235 


and besides, I scarcely know where to look for 
the key.” 

“ Den we’ll break de lock, dat’s all. Come 
all of you to Mr. Wilson’s room.” 

“ Oh then,” said Wilson, forcing a laugh, 
and making a violent effort to appear gay, 
though still his uneasiness and embarrassment 
were distinctly visible, “ oh then there would 
be no great use in carrying the joke farther, 
for if I went so far with it as to let you find 
the money in my trunk, I might have some 
trouble in persuading you that it was a joke. 
Here is the key, Mr. Weimar. Will you go 
yourself, sir, for the parcel, or shall I ?” 

“ So then it was you who took it, Wilson ?” 
said Mr. Talbot, an indescribable expression 
of satisfaction lighting up his fine, intellectual 
features. “ And yet you would have suffered 
this poor boy to be arrested and thrown into 
prison had it not been for Mrs. Malcolm’s keen 
Scotch penetration. What a fearful aggrava- 
tion of your own crime.” 

“ You have no right to conclude, sir, that I 
would have let it go so far as that,” said Wil- 
son, in a confident tone, ‘T was just beginning 
to think that it was time to acknowledge the 
truth, when worthy Mrs. Malcolm deprived 
me of the opportunity. However, it is all the 
same.” 


236 


“ An’ what made you be sae sair fash’d at 
my puttin’ in a word,” said the housekeeper, 
pointedly, “ for it was only a joke you were 
makiri*. Ah, Mr. Wilson, Mr. Wilson, truth 
will out. You thought to work yoiir revenge 
on Willy Burke (for God forbid that I’d say 
you intended to keep the money), but you for- 
got that he remembers his Creator in the days of 
his youth, and that the great and good I^Iaster 
w'hom he serves never forgets his ain, nor 
gives them up to the designs of the wicked.” 

Mr.W eimar here broke in impatiently. “Be- 
fore we go any farder, go you Wilson ! bring 
de money, — dat de first ting.” While he was 
gone, Mr. Talbot took the opportunity to con- 
gratulate Willy Burke on Iris innocence, assur- 
ing him that the loss of the money itself had 
not grieved him so much as his supposed guilt. 
Even Mr. Weimar in his own curt style, ex- 
pressed his sorrow for having been induced to 
treat him so hardly. 

“You didn’t treat me hardly,Mr. Weimarl” 
said Willy, “ beggin’ your pardon, sir, — for you 
couldn’t but think me guilty, an’ if I was. I’d 
deserve the very worst of treatment. But I 
knew all along that God wouldn’t desert me 
when I most wanted his help, so I waited as 
patiently as I could to see what would turn 
up. But I’m sure I never thought that any of 


the young men had taken the money, for it 
seemed to me that it must have fallen on the 
floor, and got into some dark corner where it 
was out of sight. Thanks be to God that it 
has turned up, at any rate.” 

“ Yes ! ” said Mr. Talbot, “ but it would ap- 
pear that this unhappy young man, whether 
he really intended' to keep the money or not, 
was actuated by an unholy desire of revenge. 
Mrs. Malcolm has just now been telling me 
how this Wilson and the others have been in- 
cessantly mocking and reviling you on account 
of your religion, and also the conversation (for 
one of the young men, she says, related it to 
her) which excited Wilson’s hatred so strong- 
ly. Now, who could have believed him capa- 
ble of such depravity ! ” 

“ Oh, as to that, sir,” said Willy, “ I sup- 
pose he only meant this as a joke, and as to all 
that’s passed, why it was’nt worth speakin’ of 
— when youngsters like us get together, many 
a thing we’ll be talkin’ about that is’nt worth 
repeatin’, an’ we^ forget it all — or the most of 
it — just as soon as it’s passed.” 

“ God bless you, laddie, God bless you ! ” 
was Mrs. Malcolm’s fervent exclamation, ” for 
sure an’ certain, you’re one o’ his ain faithful 
children. That you are ! ” Mr. Talbot glanced 
at his partner, and was pleased to see that the 


238 


old man’s countenance wore a softened and 
even land expression as he looked at Willy» 
on whose sunny features not a cloud was now 
visible. 

Wilson just then entered the room and 
handed the parcel to Mr. "W^eimar with another 
attempt at a laugh, though his cheek was 
dyed crimson. “ There it is, sir,” he said, and 
his voice trembled slightly. “ I hope you’ll 
forgive me for this trick, as the money has’nt 
been but a few hours in my possession, and 

,” what he further intended to say was 

cut short by Weimar, who, snatching the par- 
cel from his hand, exclaimed angrily, 

“ You be one great rascal — dat what I say — 
and I tink you deserve to be sent to de State’s 
Prison. I’m very sorry dat I can’t have you 
taken up, for I’d give de half of all dis money 
to se e you lodged dere. And dese two lads — 
Hamilton and Davis — dey help you up wit 
your wicked plans — dey walk off, too, as well 
as you — ” 

“ Why, surely, Mr. Weimr,” said Hamilton, 
you would’ nt think of punishing us so se- 
verely merely for helping Mr. Wilson to carry 
on his frolic ? I am quite sure that we had 
not the slightest intention of really injuring 
WiUy Burke, any more than Wilson had of 
ret<»ining yoiur money. It was all a joke, sir — 


239 


indeed, it was. I see now that we should not 
have taken such a liberty when your property 
was in question ; but when no serious harm 
was done, or, in fact, intended, it is rather hard 
that wo should lose our situations for a harm- 
less trick.” 

“ Yes — you call it harmless — you do — but I 
caU it wicked — vile plot. You all hate dis boy, 
Burke, because he papist; you tink he too 
much favor here ; den you put your heads to- 
geder and make a plan to ruin him. I don’t 
say dat Wilson meant to take dat money for 
himself^ but dat no excuse ; you all bad, very 
bad, very wicked, and you march — all three of 
you. You go and make jokes like dis some 
Oder place.” 

Mr. Talbot inquired how Wilson had got 
into the office, and was answered, “By means 
of the inner door, which,” said he, “ was not 
locked, as you supposed.” 

“ Well,” said Weimar, motioning with his 
nand for all to leave the room, “ de night is 
passing away ; it is time to put off every busi- 
ness for de morrow. And, Wilson, do you 
hear ? You dat ean make such fine joke. You, 
Hamilton, and Davis must all come to my 
office to-morrow forenoon. I’ll pay you up^ 
and den you go about your business.” 

When they had all reached the sitting-room 


240 


below, Wilson said, with, a sneer, “ I hope, Mr. 
Weimar ! as you propose dismissing us from 
your employment, chiefly because we do not 
carry crucifixes about in our pockets, that you’ll 
do something handsome for this pious youth 
who practices all sorts of Popish superstitions.” 
Amazed at his impudence, all the other young 
men, looked anxiously to see its effect on Mr. 
Weimar particularly, whose choleric temper 
was well knoMTi to them all. To their sur- 
prise, he was perfectly cool, though the tremor 
of his lip denoted strong inward emotion. 
Rising from his seat, he assumed an air of dig- 
nity not at all usual with him, and ordered 
Wilson to quit the room instantly ; he would 
even have insisted on his leaving the house, 
but Mr. Talbot persuaded him to let him re- 
main till the morrow. 

“ Come, lads,” said Wilson, addressing his 
two friends, “ let us go up stairs. Why do you 
stand there looking as though you could cry ? 
If you had a particle of spirit, you woiild’nt 
let that hypocritical Burke see you so dejected. 
You know very well how he’ll triumph over 
us ! Come along ! ” But they whom he ad- 
dressed were not at all disposed to take his ad- 
vice, being still ih hopes of being forgiven, so 
they both refused to go with him, saying that 
they had been but too long tmder his guidance. 


241 


A sneering laugh was "Wilson’s reply, but as 
he passed "Willy Burke on his way out, he 
said aloud : “ I’ve missed my aim this time, 
but all is not lost; your brother is in our 
hands, and if we don’t make him a good sound 
Protestant, my name is not George "Wilson. 
Remember ! ” And he raised his finger with a 
warning gesture as he left the room. 

Willy Burke was far from hearing this 
threat without emotion, as his varying colors 
truly told, but yet it did not prevent him from 
doing what he thought his duty. Going then 
up to Mr. Weimar and Mr. Talbot where they 
stood together near the fire-place, he said in a 
low voice : “ Might I venture, gentlemen, to 
ask you a favor, now that you know I’m not 
guilty of that crime ? ” 

“Yes! ask what you please, Willy!” said 
Mr. Talbot, kindly taking his hand, “ I know 
very well that you will make no unreasonable 
request.” 

“ Well, sir, if you and Mr. Weimar wouldn’t 
think it too great a liberty for me to take, I’d 
ask you to forgive Mr. Wilson and the other 
young men. They’re all longer in the place 
than I am, and as you never found any of them 
dishonest before now, its plain that it was only 
meant for a joke. And then it would be hard 
if they’d be sent away on my account, that’s 

p 


242 


only a stranger after all. That’s what I want- 
ed to say, gentlemen, but I didn’t like to come 
up to speak to you before Mr. Wilson.” 

“ Now, Weimar !” said Talbot, without re- 
plying to Willy, “you heard what Wilson said 
to him as he left the room, — so that you have 
before you all his conduct, and yet you hear 
him sue for pardon for that persevering foe. 
What think you now ?” and he added in a 
lower voice, “ see if this be not the effect of 
his religious principles ?” 

Weimar, without any direct reply, turned 
at once to Willy, and affecting a sternness 
which was far from his real feeling at the mo- 
ment, he said rather sharply. “ You not in 
earnest, — you only make beheve dat you for- 
give him. Dat’s not natural, dat you’d be 
asking us to pardon him, and he so black a- 
gainst you, — I don’t tink dat’s possible ! — 
what you say, boy ? — I no like people dat make 
b’lieve, — better say nothing about it !” 

“Well, sir !” said Willy, “to tell you the 
truth, I did find it hard to bring myself to do 
it, for it is unnatural — I know that. I must 
own that I was angry with Mr. Wilson when 
I found out what he had done, and it’s only 
there a little while ago that I got the better of 
ray anger. But I did, sir, thanks be to God, 
I did get the better of it, and I can solemnly 


243 


assure you that I never asked any favor with 
more sincerity than I ask you and Mr. Talbot 
to overlook these young men’s fault, and keep 
them in their situations.” 

“ But how did you ‘get de better’ of your 
anger, as you say yourself?” persisted Wei- 
mar, while Mr. TMbot, Mr. Malcolm, and even 
Dawson looked eagerly for the answer. 

” Well, sir. I’ll just tell you that. When I 
felt the passion strong upon me, and couldn’t 
even bear to look at !Mr. Wilson, in the room 
above, I put my hand in ray pocket for my 
handkerchief, and it came right on the cruci- 
fix that I had put back into my pocket to hide 
it from any more insult.” 

“ And what den, — what did de crucifix do, 
eh ? — it make you forgive Wilson, I s’pose.” 

“ It did, sir,” said Willy, heedless of the 
tone in which the other spoke, — “ that is, it 
reminded me in a minute of all that our bless- 
ed Saviour suffered from wicked men, and how 
he died on the cross to save all mankind, if it 
is’nt their own fault, — even the very Jews that 
put him to death, — then I remembered how he 
prayed for them unth his last breath, and I saw 
at once what a grievous sin it was for me to be 
so angry with Mr. Wilson, for such a trifling 
cause, — so I begged that Jesus Christ would 
grant me the grace to forgive him, and very 


244 : 


soon I felt my heart softened and my anger 
dying away, and I knew that God had indeed 
heard mj' prayer. That’s the truth, sir, whe- 
ther you believe me or not !” 

“ I do, — I do b’lievc you, and since dat’s de 
way you Cat’lics use de crucifix, to make tink 
of Christ’s passion, and den forgive deir ene- 
mies, I’ll never make mock of it any more. 
Dere now, we say no more dis night, but you 
just go on de same, Willy Burke, — don’t mind 
when some one laughs at you, as I did while 
ago, — you go to Church, and say your pray- 
ers, and study de crucifix, — I never tell you 
any more not to do dem tings.” . 

“And the priests, Mr. Weimar?” asked 
Talbot, with shy emphasis, “ Is he still to keep 
clear of them, as I once^heard you tell him ?” 

“ Ah ! dat’s de point, — dat’s de worst of it, 
— you popish people so much afraid of de 
priests, — you can’t do noting widout deir leave! 
— let me alone about de priests.” 

“ And yet you cannot pretend to say,” ob- 
served Talbot, unwilling to give up the point 
so easily, “ that Willy Burke asked permission 
of the priest to forgive Wilson, and sue for fa- 
vor for him.” 

“ I know dat, I know dat but what for you 
say so ?” 

‘•Why simply this replied Talbot, “that 


245 


whatever you admire and approve of in this 
young lad's conduct, is the teaching of the 
priests reduced to practice, — and that because 
they arc the expounders of the divine law, and 
guide their people according to its precepts. 
Well, w'ell would it be for society — even civil 
society — were all who profess the Catholic 
faith to follow the advice, and practice the les- 
sons they receive from their priests as faithful- 
ly as docs this humble youth. Perhaps it is 
not well for me to speak so before you,Willy!” 
he added, addressing the latter, — “ nor would 
I venture to do so, but that I believe you I oo 
firmly grounded in the maxims of true piety, 
to be puffed up, or elated by human praise.” 

“ Oh, no, sir !” said Willy, modestly, — “I 
hope God will never let me forget myself so 
far as to become proud ; but now there’s no 
great danger, sir> for I understand very well 
that it’s to our holy religion the merit goes, 
and not to me.” 

“Well! well !” said Weimar, “let us go 
now, — come Talbot — we’ll talk of dis anoder 
time, for I do begin to tink dat some religion 
is good after all.” 

“ And so think I,” said Dawson, approach- 
ing Willy, as the gentlemen left the room, and 
he shook his hand warmly, “ I, too, am con- 
vinced that religion is even necessary for the 


246 


good of society, — and this night has confirmed 
me in the opinion that the Cathohc religion is 
the best of all, — in fact the only one that can 
control the heart and bend the stubborn will 
of man !” 

“ Well !” said Willy Burke, as they ascend- 
ed the stairs together, “ I can’t tell you how 
glad I am to hear you say so, — it’s such a glor- 
ious thing to see a soul coming back from the 
way of error into the right road, — the road that 
leads to heaven. May God grant you the grace 
to persevere to the end.” 

“ I hope you’ll not forget me in your pray- 
ers, then,” said Willy, with unaffected fervor, 
“for there’s nothing more delightful to all true 
Catholics than to see them that’s outside the 
Church cornin’ in, where they know they’ll 
find a safe shelter. You may be sure I’ll pray 
for you!” 'fbey then bade each other good 
night, and each went bis way to bis room. 


CHAPTER XI. 

THE REVENGE. 

On the following morning Wilson was paid 
off and dismissed, with a friendly admonition 
from Mr. Talbot, warning him of the danger 
of giving way to his passions, and reminding 


247 


him how the disgraceful scene of the night be- 
fore, and the consequent loss of his situation, 
were but the sequel of that memorable con- 
versation wherein he had so wantonly (though 
perhaps without any degree of malic6) attack- 
ed Willy Burke, on the score of his religion. 
“Revenge,” said Sir. Talbot, “is at all times 
an unholy feeling, and if indulged will often 
be found to recoil on the head of him who 
worked it for another. Thus you promised to 
be revenged on Burke, merely because he put 
a sudden stop to your ridicule of his religion 
and its priests. Well, you have done yom 
utmost — you have made a desperate effort to 
fulfil your vow, and here it is yourself who 
suffers. You sought to blacken and defame 
that virtuous lad, and the result of your ma- 
chinations has been to establish his character 
on a firmer basis than ever, so that our opinion 
of him cannot be again changed, while you 
are dismissed from a situation which you had 
filled for two years before we knew him, and 
go forth suspected, so that nothing could in- 
duce us to recommend j'ou to any office of 
trust. Take my word for it, Wilson, that the 
safest road, even in a worldly point of view, 
is the way of God’s commandments. The way 
of sin and error will never bring you to true. 


248 


happiness — even limiting the expression to 
the happiness of this life." 

“At any rate,” was the answer, “I don’t 
want to be schooled by any one. 1 guess I’m 
quite ablb to take care of myself, and to judge 
for myself too. I, at least, Mr. Talbot, will 
never submit my judgment to that of any other 
— I leave that to Papists who ‘hear the church.’ 
As for losing my situation, I don’t care a straw 
about it — the loss a’nt much.” Mr. Talbot 
only smiled — it was a smile of pity — but Mr. 
Weimar raised his head from the desk where 
he had been writing, and angrily ordered him 
to quit the place instantly. 

“ If you speak anoder word here,” he said 
sternly, “ I’ll have de porters kick you out. — 
How dare you speak so to Mr. Talbot, after we 
let you off so easy, widout making every body 
know what great scoundrel you are. Go off, 
I say, or you’ll not be glad for staying.” 

“ I will go— old ginger- face,” said Wilson, 
his face pale with the intensity of his passion, 
“ but be sure that I’ll cherish the remembrance 
of your parting words.” 

At the special request of Mr. Talbot, the 
other two lads were kept, as their guilt had 
been much less than that of Wilson, on whose 
instigation they had solely acted. Willy Burke 
was forthwith placed in the situation left va- 


249 


cant by Wilson’s departxire, and so far all 
went well. 

Next evening Willy went to see his sisters, 
and gave Mrs. Williams an account of what 
had happened on the preceding day, conceal- 
ing, however, the name of the delinquent. The 
little girls cried bitterly when they heard of 
the sore trial their brother had undergone, 
while Mrs. Williams could only raise her hands 
and eyes towards heaven in silent thankfulness 
— for her heart was full of joy and gratitude 
on hearing the beautiful morality of the reli- 
gion she loved so fully vindicated, and so tri- 
umphantly proved. WiUy had studiously 
avoided taking any merit to himself, giving to 
God, as a Christian should, all the merit and 
all the praise, yet Mrs. Williams extended her 
hand to him when he had eoncluded and said, 
while the glow of genuine feeling lit up her 
faded cheek : 

“ May the Lord bless you, my child, — and 
bless you he will — for you make it your chief 
care to do Ilis holy will, as in duty bound. Go 
on as you are going, and be assured that you 
will pass unscathed through the fire of this 
world’s temptations and allurements — they 
cannot harm those who are strong in faith and 
humble in heart.” 

Ah, but, Mrs. Williams,” said Willy with 


260 


a sudden change of manner, “ what is to be- 
come of poor, unfortunate Peter ? I’m afraid 
what I heard is too true, for he hinted it to 
me plainly enough after we left here on that 
Sunday evening when we last called to see 
you. I wish,” he added with a sigh, “ that 
Father Fitzherbert was come back, maybe he 
could do something with him, for Father O’- 
Hara doesn’t know him at all. At any rate, I 
think I’ll go this very night and ask his ad- 
vice.” 

“ Do Will,” said Mrs. Williams, “ and I’d 
have you go, too, and try to see poor Peter. I 
wish you could get him to come oftener here, 
so that we might reason with him, and try to 
make him understand the danger he’s in. Alas ! 
it was an evil day for him, poor, misguided boy, 
when he went back to those people.” 

“ You may say that, Mrs. Williams,” said 
Willy, mournfully, “for if God hasn’t forbid 
it they’ll rob him of what little faith he has — 
poor fellow, he never could be got to read any 
books that would have instructed him in reli- 
gious matters — neither would he go to hear 
sermons, and how could he know much about 
his own religion — so they know that very well 
— these people that he’s got in with — and 
they’re the very set that can take advantage 
of his ignorance. Oh, girls,” he added, ad- 


251 


dressing his young sisters, with a burst of ten- 
der emotion that brought tears to his eyes, — 
“ Oh, girls, if your poor mother or father w'as 
alive and see their son on the way of turning 
his back on the holy Church of God — but its 
well they’re not living to see that,for I’m sure it 
would break their hearts — pray for him, Brid- 
! get and Alice,” he said, as he arose and took 
■ his cap, wiping the tears firom his eyes at the 
same time, “ and you, Mrs. Williams, you’ll 
be mindful of him in your prayers — I know 
you wiU.” 

“ Indeed, I will, Willy, dear, — may the 
Lord in mercy hear our prayers.” 

“ And Willy,” said Alice, running after her 
brother to the door, “ don’t forget to tell Pe- 
ter that Bridget and I are praying for him to 
the Blessed Virgin — our mother in heaven — 
that she may ask God to keep him in the true 
faith. Tell him that, Willy, and tell him that 
if he leaves the church, we can’t love him as 
well as we do now, for it’ll be so wicked of 
him that God will be very angry with him, 
and then we oughtn’t to love him as well, 
you know.” 

“ Yes, yes, Alice dear, I’ll be sure to toU 
him,” said Willy, as he stooped to kiss the 
fair forehead of his little sister. “ Go in now, 
dear, and God bless you till I sec you again.” 


252 


Willy went straight to Father O’Hara, but 
he had not reached his house when he met 
Dawson who had been going in quest of him 
to Mrs. Williams’s. “ Do you know, AVilly,” 
said he, “ that I want you to come with me to ' 
yoiu: confessor. Father O’Hara, as I should 
like to have a conversation with him, regard- 
ing some little doubts which I cannot find 
solved in the books you lent me. Can you 
take time to come now ?” 

“ With all my heart,” returned Willy, “ for 
the truth is that I’m just on my way to speak 
to Father O’Hara about my brother. So come 
along — I know there’s no use in hiding my 
poor brother’s affairs from you, for you heard 
the whole story long ago.” 

In going to Father O’Hara’s house it was 
necessary to pass through the street in w’hich 
Mr. Talbot’s dwelling-house was situated, and 
the two friends were just within sight of the 
door, when, a little before them, just where a 
narrow, dark street or, rather, alley, opened 
on the broader street, they saw a gentleman 
who had been walking slowly onward, sud- 
denly struck dpwn by a person w'ho instantly 
disappeared down the dark alley. The moon 
was shining brightly, but the cowardly assail- 
ant had taken his stand on the shady side of 
the street, and he was, moreover, muffled up 


253 


so closely about the neck and face that it would 
have been difficult to ascertain his identity, even 
^ if quite close to him, but yet Dawson exclaim- 
^ ed in an audible whisper — “Why, Willy,” and 
I he caught his arm, “ look there — I’m not here 
^ if that a’nt Wilson.” 

“Hush, hush !” said the other quickly, “ne- 
^ ver mind who it was — let us run to help the 
poor man that’s lying on the ground.” 

“ All this had been the work of a moment, 
and as it chanced that very few persons were 
f passing that way at the time, so Willy and his 
^ friend were the first that reached the fallen 
® man. He was lying with his face downwards, 
f for the ruffian had struck him from behind, 

1 and as he appeared entirely motionless, Willy 
cried out in alarm, “Oh, Dawson — he’s dead.” 

By this time several persons had gathered 
around, and it was proposed to carry the gen- 
tleman to the nearest surgeon. He was taken 
up by three or four stout men, who were walk- 
ing off as fast as their bodies wouia permit, 
when, having caught a glimpse of the face, on 
which death seemed already to have placed his 
seal, Willy and Dawson cried out together : — 
“My God! it’s Mr. Weimar!” And for a 
moment, both were so terrified that they could 
not utter a word. The men, seeing that they 
knew who the gentleman was,instantly stopped. 


254 


and Dawson, as soon as he could find voice to 
speak, cried out, “ Don’t take him to any hos- 
pital — if you’ll only be good enough to come 
mth us, we’ll show you his home.” They 
then proceeded to Mr. Talbot’s, where poor 
Weimar resided with the family, having him- 
self neither wife nor child. "Wlien Dawson, 
rang the door bell, the sound startled all they 
family within, as he had unconsciously givenil 
it a violent shake, for his hand trembled soij 
that he could scarcely command its motion, 


Mr. Talbot and his wife, with several ser-^ 
vants, all rah to the door, and what a specta- 
cle awaited their eyes. There was poor Mr. 
Weimar carried in, apparently dead — his gray 
hair streaming around his face, for his head 
was of course uncovered. His hat had been 
forgotten on the street. 

“ Good God !” cried Mr. Talbot, “what ter- 
rible accident has happened to Mr. Weimar ? 
What ! Dawson and Burke here ? — what is the 
meaning of all this ?” 

But Mrs. Talbot here interposed with, “Nay, 
Henry, the first thing is to see to poor Mr. 
Weimar There will be time enough to inquire 
how this occurred. Will you be kind enough 
to carry him up stairs to his bed-room ?” she 
said, addressing the men. 

“ Certainly, ma’am,” said they, “ but it’s to 


255 


be feared that he may be put any where you 
like, for there a’nt a move in him.” 

“ Oh, I trust in God’s mercy that the case 
is not quite so bad, but come along at once, for 
it behoves us to apply some restorative as soon 
as may be.” And Mrs. Talbot snatching a 
candle from a servant, showed the way up 
stairs. Her husband staid a little behind in 
order to learn the cause of what he saw. 

“We were just coming along the street here, 
Mr. Talbot,” said Dawson, “ when just a few 
blocks from here, we saw poor Mr. Weimar 
walking on before us, on the shady side of the 
street — but little we thought it was he — when 
we saw a person who must have been waiting 
for liim there, strike him across the back (or 
perhaps neck) with something that appeared 
to be a large stick, and he instantly fell — the 
assailant ran off down that dark alley to the 
right here below, and we hastened to the spot 
where Mr. Weimar lay. When we came up ' 
he was Ijdng on his face, and we didn’t know 
it was he till the man carried him out into the 
moonlight.” 

• “ And were you sufficiently near when it 
happened to catch a glimpse of the assailant ? 
Have you any suspicions as to who it might 
be r” This question Mr. Talbot addressed to 
Dawson, and the latter was just answering — 


256 


“ To the best of my knowledge, Mr Talbot 

” when Willy Burke interrupted him 

by saying eagerly : 

“ Why, indeed, sir, we weren't near enough 
to say positively who it was, and if we made 
a guess at any one, we might be WTong, so it’s 
better for us only to tell you what we know 
for a certainty. The man (whoever he might 
be, sir,) was so muffled up, and we were so 
far off that w’e couldn’t venture to say who it 
was.” Dawson looked askance at Willy, and 
smiled slightly. 

Mr. Talbot looked hard at the animated face 
of the speaker, and then he shook his head 
doubtingly, but he contented himself with 
saying — “And yet the boy is right,” and tell- 
ing the young men to follow, he hurried up 
stairs.” 

One of Mr. Talbot’s little children met him 
above, with the glad tidings that Mr. Weimar 
was not dead — “ Mother says he was only in a 
swoon, father, and now he begins to move.’’ 

When Mr. Talbot entered the room, his wife 
beckoned him to approach, and told him in a 
whisper that Mr. Weimar was already showing 
symptoms of recovery, having even opened his 
eyes for a moment. “But,” said she, “ I much 
fear that his mind may bo deranged, for no- 
thing could be wilder than the glance he gave 


267 


around. You should send at once for Dr. 
Hammond.” 

The doctor was accordingly sent for. but be- 
fore he arrived the patient had ■ somewhat re- 
covered, and to Mrs. Talbot’s great joy, he 
seemed perfectly sensible. When asked if he 
felt any pain, he said in a faint, languid voice 
— ” Yes, dere’s much pain in de back. I tink 
dere’s some bone broken dere. But my head” 

and he raised his hand to his forehead — 

“ oh, dat’s worser — my head is bad — very bad 
— ^just here.” 

Mr. Talbot and his wife exchanged looks of 
alarm, but neither spoke till the arrival of the 
doctor, who entered the room a few minutes 
after. Having examined the patient, he turn- 
ed to Mr. Talbot with a very serious face. — 
“Mr. Weimar's shoulder,” said he, “is dislo- 
cated, but that is only a secondary considera- 
tion — it is that pain in his head of which he 
complains that makes me fear. The probabi- 
lity is that though no outward sign appears, 
his head may have sustained some serious inju- 
ry from the fall, which may produce contusion 
ot the brain.” This was said in a low voice 
to Mr. Talbot, but it was not lost on Wei- 
mar himself, for he quickly asked : 

“ Den you tink me in a bad way, doctor r” 

“I did not actually say so, Mr. Weimar,” 

Q 


268 


and the doctor glanced admonishingly at Tal- 
bot — “but in any case you must be kept per- 
fectly quiet — excitement of any kind must bo 
carefully avoided.” 

At this moment Weimar caught a glimpse 
of Willy Burke, where he stood in a corner 
of the room, and he made him a sign to ap- 
proach. 

WiUy bent down over him and the sick man 
said — “ I know very well I’m worser dan de 
doctor tells me, and dere is something in here” 
— placing his hand on his chest — “ dat tells me 
to prepare for death. Mr. Talbot did tell me 
once about your moder, dat died so happy, as 
de priest tell him. I want to die a Cat’lic, 
Willy B\irke, an’ den per’aps I’ll have a chance. 
You go fetch de priest here — tell him come 
quick, for dat a great sinner is going to die, 
and wants to be received into God’s church 
before he leaves dis world. Go fast — fast, boy 
— and den come back here, — for I want you 
stay wid me — it was you make me tink first 
about religion — den Talbot lent me great many 
good books dat showed me de danger I was in, 
but if de good God will save my soul, I may 
tank you, after Him — ’cause I see you not like 
Oder boys at all — but good, very good, — and 
den when I found you so good Cat’lic and do- 
ing just what your priest told you, I said to 


259 


my own self — ‘ I must see what dis religion 
of his is,’ and den God gave me de light to 
see. Go now.” 

“ Well, sir,” said Willy, struggling to re- 
strain his tears, “I’ll have Father O’Hara here 
in ten minutes, with God’s help, and I’m sure 
I’m both proud and happy to go such an errand 
for you, though I hope there’s no danger of 
your death. At any rale, sir, I’ll go as fast 
as my legs will carry me.” 

After telling Mr. and Mrs. Talbot, in a low 
voice where he was going, Willy hurried away. 
The doctor then approached Mr. AVeimar’s 
bed, and renewed his injunctions regarding 
the stillness and repose which could alone, he 
said, save his patient’s life. “ I have allowed 
you,” said he, “to finish your conversation with 
that young lad, but it must absolutely be the 
last. I must not, and shall not permit you to 
speak to any one on any topic whatsoever, un- 
tUl I see how matters will go.” 

“ Yes, but, doctor, dis is all de matter of my 
soul — you know very well dat I may die very 
soon, and what will become of my poor soul if 
I not try to settle my account wit de great 
Master of us all ? — de greater danger I’m in 
dere’s de more need dat I tink of my soul — 
’cause I’ve neglected it too long, and I’ve no 
more time to lose.” 


260 


Well, I warn you,” said the doctor, “ that 
any exciting conversation may cause your 
death and that very suddenly — so if you will 
see the clergyman now, and enter upon a long 
discourse with him, I will not answer for the 
consequences.” 

“ Ah, doctor,” said the patient, with a faint 
smile, “ you speak so 'cause you Protestant — 
a Cat’ lie would say, ‘mind de soul first — ’cause 
you may soon have to go before de judge’ — de 
poor body is not much to tink of doctor, so 
wheder I die or not. I’ll have de priest come, 
and get inside de ‘ one fold’ before de great 
Shepherd calls. K dat makes me die, no mat- 
ter — it will be only my body, for I hope God 
will spare my soul, when he gave me de grace 
to see de right road to heaven.” 

The doctor drew back in sullen silence, mut- 
tering, “ Obstinate old fool !” and Mr. Talbot 
obeying a sign from Weimar, approached his 
bed. 

“ Now, Talbot,” said the old man, “ you 
just tell me how dis happened. I only remem- 
ber dat I got a gre at blow on de back dat made 
me feel as if my heart was broke in two, and 
den I felt — dat’s all I know.” 

“ And none of us knows any more of the 
matter,” said Talbot in reply, “not even Daw- 
son or Burke, who both were walking after you 


261 


and saw you receive the blow. The villain ran 
off down the alley, as soon as he had dealt the 
blow, whereupon they came up, and finding 
it was you they came here with the men who 
brought you home,” 

“ Ha !” said Weimar, as a gleam of his 
fierce anger shot from his eye, “ ha ! I know 
— I know — dat rascal Wilson — ay, he said he’d 
remember, and so he did. But I’ll have 
him hanged for dis — dat is, you will, Talbot, 
if I die. I wouldn’t rest in peace if dat fellow 
wasn’t punished for his crimes. Curses on 
him, de black villian.” 

“ For mercy’s sake, Weimar,” interposed 
Talbot, “ do not speak so — you will certainly 
do yourself harm, and it was very wrong of 
me to enter into conversation with you on so 
exciting a subject. Not a word now, as you 
value my friendship — hush, here’s the doctor.” 

But just at the moment Father O’Hara was 
announced, and Weimar exclaimed joyfully : 
“Oh den, doctor, you don’t speak one word. 
J ust leave me wit de priest — de doctor of my 
soul, — after he do his part, den I listen to you 
and do what you tell me.” 

“ My dear Mr. Talbot,” said the priest, as he 
warmly shook hands with that gen'.leinan — 
“ this is a truly melancholy affair, but yet, see 
how the Lord draweth good from what appears 


2G2 


to us evil. Had Mr. M’eiinar no previous 
thoughts of becoming a Catholic r” 

“ Oh, yes, yes !” exclaimed the patient — 
“ I read great many Cat’lic books — and I pray 
to God to show me de trut’, and den I begin 
to find out dat all de old notions I had about 
your religion, and about de priests, was wrong 
— all wrong. But all de lime I couldn’t bring 
myself to say I’d be a Cat’lic, or go to confes- 
sion — dat I couldn’t do, I said — and den I was 
very much angry wit myself, and when I talk- 
ed to Mr. Talbot or his wife about it, I said it 
was about de priests — dat was only an excuse 
dat de deevil put in my mout’, for I know very 
well now dat God loft de priests power to for- 
give sins in His name. But now, all de bad 
old pride is gone, ’cause my life is near done, 
and I want to confess my sins, and get de Ava- 
ter of baptism, and be a Cat’lic before I die, 
for fear God Avould ask me why I did not ‘hear 
de church’ as He tell us all to do — and Avhen 
I could not answer, He surely would send me 
wit de bad people who rebelled against Him.” 

“ How admirable are the ways of the Lewd !” 
exclaimed the priest again, and he raised his 
eyes to heaven, — “ Truly has this awful acci- 
dent been sent as the means of leading you 
into the true church, by putting an end to your 


263 


irresolution. All praise for ever to His holy 
name !” 

Mr. Talbot then beckoned all to follow him 
from the room, leaving the good father alone 
with his penitent. Mrs. Talbot then took the 
opportunity to prepare some suitable draught 
for the patient, and before she had returned 
from the kitchen. Father O’Hara entered the 
room. Before he had spoken a word to any 
one, he approached Willy Burke, and laying 
his hand on his shoulder, he said, — 

“ Rejoice and be glad, my child ! for God 
has given you the special grace of aiding and 
assisting in the execution of his merciful de- 
signs on this man ! — Under God he attributes 
his conversion, — and a truly marvellous con- 
version it is, — to your excellent example. So 
true it is, that the silent influence of example 
is more efficacious than precept. But let not 
this tempt you to think better of yourself, Wil- 
ly ; for the greater the favor is that you have 
received, the more cause you have to humble 
yourself, before the Almighty giver. May the 
Lord bless you, my dear child !” 

“ But you have not heard all, reverend sir!” 
said Dawson, coming modestly forward, — “ I 
am another convert of Willy Burke's making. 
Not that he ever talked to me about religious 
matters, until I began to think of them myself. 


264 


and asked him to give me some instructions , 
but, like Mr. Weimar, I was struck by tbe 
wonderful difference between bis life and that 
of myself and others. I saw him so pioxis and 
80 regular in going to Church, and yet always 
80 gay and cheerful, that he seemed quite hap- 
py. And then, no matter what we did or smd 
to him, he never complained of us, and was 
always ready to oblige us in any way he could, 
so when I put all together, and compared it 
with the conduct of all the boys of his age I 
had seen, I began to think that the religion he 
professed, and lived up to, must be the right 
one, for he was the very first Catholic boy I 
had ever known so intimately. Now, sir ! I 
have been studying your holy religion in all 
its principal features, and with God’s blessing, 
I think I understand them tolerably well. I 
was on my way to your ho^e with W illy 
Burke when this dreadful occurrence stopped 
us!” 

“ Allow me to congratulate you, then, on 
the victory you have gained,” said Father O’- 
Hara, “ for the arch enemy of mankind stands 
ever in the way to prevent, if it be possible, the 
rebellious children of our holy mother from 
returning to her embrace. You have over- 
come him, young man ! and may God give 
you the grace to lead such a life here on earth. 


265 


that He may, hereafter, award to you the 
crown promised to those who overcome the ene- 
my of our salvation.” Turning then to Willy, 
he said with a paternal smQe, “Why, my 
young friend, you are a little apostle in your 
own circle, — take care that you lose none of 
the many graces God hath given you.” 

“Indeed, Father O’Hara !’’ said Willy, his 
face betraying all the confusion which he real- 
ly felt, “it’s enough to make any one ashamed 
to hear himself so praised up ; but then again, 
when I come to think of it, sure I need’nt be 
ashamed, for it’s all the work of God himself, 
and for His greater honor and glory.” 

Here Mr. Talbot was summoned to the bed- 
side of Mr. Weimar, who extended his hand 
as he entered, and with a happy smile, — “ So 
now I’m a Cat’lic at last, — God be praised, — 
what you tink, Talbot, its much happiness to 
humble one’s self before de good God dat one 
has so much offended, and confess deir fault, 
and ask his pardon, — and den to hear his min- 
ister give de pardon in his name, — when I feel 
so glad now because I hope dat God will for- 
give me, or has forgiven me my sins — bad and 
many as dey were — I can’t tink dat I’m de 
same Weimar dat used to make laugh at con- 
fession, — oh ! but God is good, very, very 


good to have mercy on a poor sinful man like 
me !” 

“ I give you joy, my dear friend, from my 
heart I do !” said Talbot, with unfeigned satis- 
faction, — “ and I would recommend to you to 
supplicate the intercession of the blessed mo- 
ther of our Redeemer, — it is scarcely to be ex- 
pected that you could at this moment collect 
your thoughts sufficiently to make a review of 
so many years ; — in fact it could not be ex- 
pected that you would, — your confession, then, 
must be more or less imperfect, and before the 
priest comes again in the morning, your soul 
may be called hence, — apply, then, to her who 
has been called, and truly called — The Refuge 
of Sinners — The Help of Christians — beg of her 
to obtain for you the graces of which you 
stand in need, and above all true contrition for 
your sins.” 

Having talked a few minutes longer on this 
subject, Weimar requested that Mr. Jennings, 
their lawyer,might be sent for, as he wished to 
make his will as soon as possible. “ I tink it 
best hurry,” he said, “ for I find much weak- 
ness here — about my heart — tell de doctor too 
to come.” The doctor, who had merely with- 
drawn to another apartment, quickly made his 
appearance, and was seriously alarmed by the 
change which had taken place. In fact, he 


267 


found his patient sinking fast, while from cer- 
tain symptoms about the head, he feared a sud- 
den derangement of the brain. “I would cer- 
tainly advise you, Mr. Weimar !” he said, “ to 
get through with Mr. Jennings, when he comes, 
as fast as possible, for to tell you the truth, 
either your life or your senses will very soon 
give way.” 

Just then the lawyer entered, and the will 
was regularly drawn up, with the doctor and 
Mr. Talbot for witnesses. It was necessary, 
however, to give a few drops of wine occasion- 
ly to the patient, for so great w^as his weakness 
that several times he was obliged to pause in 
his dictation. When the will was completed, 
he appeared truly grateful for that he had been 
enabled to go through with it. “Now,” said 
he, in a low% faint voice, “ now I’ve noting 
more to do wit dis world, — oh ! if I could only 
know that God will have mercy on my poor 
soul, I’d be glad to die ; but dere, I know very- 
well dat my confession wasn’t whai it ought to 
be, and I have much fear. Oh, my God ! — 
my good Master ! how wicked I have been, 
— a bad, bad servant, — it wasn’t for you I 
worked in my life, but for myself, — oh ! what 
a miserable man I am, — I shut my eyes 
against de trut’ till de very last, and how 
can I hope to be forgiven ? — oh ! blessed Vir- 


268 


gin Mary ! I’m so poor a creature dat 1 dare 
not look up to dat God whom I have so often 
offended, but you’ll pray for »e to your Son, 
that He may have mercy on me. I ask your 
pardon, great queen ! because I have so long 
time despised your name, but now I know de 
great power dat you have in heaven, and I 
hope you’ll look with pity on me !” 

By this time all the family had assembled 
around the bed, and the doctor returned, say- 
ing that he could do nothing more. “ I told 
Mr. Weimar to avoid excitement,” said he, 
“ and he has never ceased talking since. Now 
ho must take the consequences. I shall wait 
some time, however, in the next room, in case 
any favorable change might occur, of which, 
indeed, I have not much hope !” 

But Weimar heeded not his words, for, just 
then he perceived Willy Burke, who was 
kneeling near the foot of the bed, his head 
bowed down and his hands clasped as in fer- 
vent prayer. “ Ha ! Willy !” said the old 
man, making an effort to raise his voice so as 
to be heard, “ you pray for me ; dat’s well, 
and when I’m gone, you pray for me too. 
Come here.” Willy approached, and bent 
down to catch the faint accents of the dying 
man. 

“ I like you very much, Willy Burke ; you 


269 


good boy, good servant of God. I owe you 
much, and when my will is opened, you find 
dat old Weimar did not forget you. You stand 
up well, and resist temptation when you poor, 
now dat you’ll be richer, do de same, and don’t 
ever forget God, for if you do, I’d be sorry, 
very sorry, to leave de money to you, ’cause 
when you come to be where I am now, on the 
bed of death, all de riches in de world is like 
noting at all ; keep dat always in your mind, 
and den you need not be afraid of death. May 
the Lord bless you and keep you all your life 
in His holy service. And be sure you don’t 
forget de poor old man dat has so much to an- 
swer for in de oder world. Pray for me, morn- 
ing and evening.” 

Willy’s tears fell fast on the withered face 
whereon death was already legibly traced, as 
he exclaimed with honest warmth, “ With the 
help of God, Mr. Weimar ! I’ll never kneel to 
pray for myself, or for my dead father or mo- 
•ther, but I’ll offer up a prayer for you. Your 
money, sir, I didn’t want, for I don’t covet 
riches, but still I thank you, Mr. Weimar; 
God knows I do ! because it shews that you 
were pleased with my poor services ; and sure 
I’d have been the most ungrateful boy in the 
world if I hadn’t served you as well as I could, 
for yourself and Mr. Talbot were the best of 


270 


friends to me. But, sir, if you were leavin’ 
me all the money you were worth, and you to 
bo dyin’ a Protestant, I’d give it all, ay, every 
cent, to see you as you are. Thanks and 
praises be to God that He has brought you 
within the pale of the Church before your 
death.”^ 

“But, Talbot,” said Weimar, making a 
strong effort to speak, for his speech was al- 
most gone. “ There’s one thing I want to tell 
you before I die : I forgive dat poor Wilson 
from my very heart. I promised de priest dat 
I wotUd forgive him, and I do ; God be praised 
for it ; tell him dat, if you ever see him, and 
dat it was de holy, and de merciful religion of 
Cat’lics, speaking by her minister, dat brought 
me to forgive him, and pray for him too.” 

He then took a kind and affecting leave of 
Mr. and Mrs. Talbot, and their children, all of 
whom were bathed in tears, for the old man 
had been as cheerful and kind in the domes- 
tic circle, as he was strict and stern with those 
whom he employed. “ Talbot,” said he, and 
his voice was scarcely audible, even when his 
friend bent down over him, “ I’ve left you de 
sole owner of de joint concern, and of my own 
money in de funds. I’ve left someting to each 
of de dear children. De remainder, after Wil- 
ly Burke’s legacy, goes to de good Bishop of 


271 


New York, to be laid out as he tinks best for 
de good of religion ; dat’s all dat poor old Wei- 
mar can do now, to make up for de time dat’s 
past. God bless you, my good, dear friend ! 
God bless you and yours!” 

These were nearly the last words poor Wei- 
mar was heard to say. Mrs. Talbot commenc- 
ed reciting the Litany of the Blessed Virgin, 
all present joining in the responses, and be- 
fore the prayer was ended, the soul had passed 
away, and Mr. Talbot, taking the book from 
his wife’s trembling hand, turned over to the 
prayers for the dead — Father O’Hara having 
been obliged to leave soon after he had 
anointed the djdng man. 


CHAPTER Xn. 

WILLY BURKE’S LEGACY. 

When Sir. Weimar’s will was at length 
opened, it was found that he had bequeathed 
to Willy Burke no less a sum than five thou- 
sand dollars : to each of the young Talbots two 
thousand, and the remainder as he had said, 
to be given in trust to the Roman Catholic 
Bishop of New York, to be appropriated at his 
discretion to Catholic charities. Willy Burke 
could, at first, scarcely believe it possible, that 


272 


so large a sum was to be his own, but when 
he could no longer doubt the fact, he exclaim- 
ed in a joyous tone : “Well, sure enough the 
Lord has worked a miracle for me, and I think 
I know what for ; with Ilis divine assistance 
I’ll do my best to carry His holy will into ex- 
ecution. Oh! may the Lord be good and 
merciful to your soul, Mr. Weimar ! sure I 
can never, never forget what you have done 
for me !” 

“ Why, Willy !” said Mr. Talbot, reproach- 
fully, “you seem to be exceedingly rejoiced 
that the legacy is so large, and yet I thought I 
hoa”d you assure my poor departed friend that 
you set little or no value on money ?” 

“ Nor neit'ier I do, sir,” replied Willv, in 
an animated tone : “when I told Mr. Weimar 
so, I told him the truth, God knows I did ; 
but then, Mr. Talbot, just think, sir, of all that 
I can do with this money. If you’ll just please 
to listen for a few minutes. I’ll tell you what 
makes me so glad to have it.” 

And Mr. Talbot did listen, at least as soon 
as the lawyer had left, and the business of 
opening the will was completed, and though it 
took Willy scarce two minutes to unfold his 
plans, yet it sufficed to call the old familiar 
smile of kindness and approbation to Mr. ’I'al- 
bot’s face. “ Well ! well ! Willy,” he said. 


27S 


“ I see you are never to be caught thinking of 
self— always occupied with others. But really 
this scheme of yours is a good one. God grant 
that it may succeed !” 

“ Oh ! I’m not afraid but it will, sir !” was 
the reply. “ I’ll just go off now and place the 
' whole matter in the hands of the blessed Mo- 
ther of God, and she’ll not fail to help me ; 
she never does. Good bye then, sir, for the 
present.” And away went Willy, his head 
and heart full of a scheme founded on the leg- 
acy of Mr. Weimar. Before making even one 
step in the affair he went into a church, and 
before an altar of the Blessed Virgin, he be- 
sought that gracious mother to assist him in 
his enterprise. “ You know, oh ! sweet mo- 
ther !” he said, with pious fervor, “ you know 
what I undertake to do is for the greater hon- 
or and glory of your divine Son, blessed be His 
holy name ! and that is the reason why I have 
such confidence in your aid ! Help me then, 
.oh powerful advocate! help me with your 
prayers, and then I’ll be sure of succeeding ! 
He arose, and left the church, full of a consol- 
ing assurance, that she to whom none ever 
sues in vain, had heard his prayer, and ap- 
proved of his design. 

A few minutes after, he knocked at Father 

O’Hara’s door, and was quickly admitted to 

B 


the small room which served for the good 
priest’s study. 

“Well, Willy !” said Father O’Hara, laying 
do\TO the ponderous volume which he had 
been reading, “ what is the matter now, that 
you are out at this hour of the day 

“ Oh ! the old tiling, sir,” said Willy, with* 
a smile, “I’m goin’ to try my hand again at it, 
and now I’m in a condition to do something 
better, for, thanks bo to God ! and jioor Mr. 
Weimar, I have five thousand dollars to work 
with ; now, don’t you tliink, sir, that I may 
begin to Ho'^e now, since God has already done 
so much for me ?” 

“ Five thousand dollars,” repeated Father 
O’Hara, “ is it possible ?” 

“ It \s, your reverence, not only possible but 
true. But still I haven’t all that for this pur- 
pose ; I only mean to put four thousand into 
that.” 

“ And what will you do with the rest r” in- 
quired Father O’Hara. 

“ Why, sir, I intend to put eight hundred 
dollars of it in the bank ; that is. I’ll let it stay 
where it is, for my sisters — four for each. Then 
there wall bo two hundred, and I’m going to 
give fifty dollars of that divided between your 
reverence and Father Smith, to have Masses 
offered up for Mr. Weimar’s soul. My father 


275 


and mother, too, I can noAV do something for 
thorn — thanks 6e to the Lord for all his mercies 
to us !” 

“ Well, really, my dear boy,” said the priest 
as he wiped away an obscure tear, “ well, 
really, your unworldly forgetfulness of self is 
so refreshing in these days of cold, grasping 
selfishness — that it makes me feel almost as 
though I were young again. But the sum you 
propose giving to the priests is far too large. 
I, for one, will remember Mr. Weimar for 
many a day when I am offering up the holy 
sacrifice — duty and charity bind me to that, so 
that you need not set me down for so large a 
sum. In fact. I’ll have none of your money 
— none. So pass me over and go on. I will 
speak to Father Smith, and some others of our 
brethren, that they may all unite in praying for 
the departed.” , 

“ And ho deserved it well.” said Willy, “ if 
your reverence knew but all ; for, except this 
legacy to me, and six thousand dollars to Mr. 
Talbot’s children, he left all the rest of his money 
that was in the funds to the bishop, to be laid 
out on Catholic charities. I believe it makes 
about twenty thousand dollars, clear of every- 
thing.” 

“ Thanks be to God, ” exclaimed the priest, 
clasping his hands together, as he raised his 


276 


swimming eyes to heaven. “ Great is His 
goodness to us, his unworthy children. And 
surely that noble bequest comes in the hour of 
need, for to my certain knowledge tlie poor bi- 
shop has been harassed for several weeks past 
for want of funds to can’y on some buildings 
— he having no less than three of them going 
forward and depending entirely on God's 
goodness. Truly, this is a marvellous bless- 
ing.” 

“ Well now, sir, ” said Willy, “ I’ll go, and 
I hope you’ll be at home when we come — it 
will be in about an hour or so.” 

“ Unless I am unexpectedly called out, you 
will find me here.” 

“ Oh ! but that’s true,” said Willy, turning 
back from the door, “what docs your reverence 
think of Dawson ? is he really sincere ?” 

“ So sincere,” said the priest, “ that he is 
coming here this evening for me to hear his 
confession. I have had several visits from him 
lately, and he apiiears so w’dl disposed that, 
with God’s help, he may soon be admitted to 
the table of the Lord. You may perhaps find 
him here when you come.” 

“ If I do, sir, it will be all the better — but. 
I’m staying far too long, so I must hurry away 
now.” 

It was already drawing towards evening,— 


277 


(te slanting beams of the vrestem sun were 
gilding the tops of the tall, dingy warehouses 
on either side as Willy Burke hurried along 
through a back street, taking the well-known 
way to Mr. Watkins’s office. But ere yet he 
had got in sight of it he stopped short, and 
turning down a_ wider and more handsome 
street, w’hose bright brick houses, and green 
jalonsies, and iron palisading, denoted a double 
range of dwelling-houses, he slackened his 
pace, and at times stopped altogether, looking 
anxiously down the street. “ He must soon 
be here,” he murmured to himself, “for I 
know this is about the hour when he leaves 
the office.” He had waited some time, never- 
theless, when he saw his brother coming has- 
tily along on the opposite side of the street. — 
Crossing over quickly, Willy caught his arm, 
saying with a smile : “ W^hy, Peter, you must 
be in a mighty great hurry, when you were 
passing wdthout seeing me, and I’m sure I’ve 
been long enough waiting for you. It’s no 
easy matter to get seeing you now-a-days.” 

“ And whose fault is that ?” asked Peter 
sharply. “ Is it any wonder that I wouldn’t 
put myself. in the way of being lectured and 
drilled by a saucy brother ?” 

“ Ab ! Peter, Peter, ” said Willy, shaking 
his head sorrowfully, “this wasn’t the way 


273 


in old times — if you were going on as you 
ought to do, you wouldn’t have any need nor 
wish to shun me, — it’s because your own 
heart reproaches you that you fear me.” 

“ There now,” said Peter, breaking in, “this 
is the old thing over again ; there you’re at it 
again. Isn’t it a poor case that even going 
along the street I must be waylaid and abused 
in this manner. What brought you here at 
all ?” 

“Well, I’ll just tell you that,” replied his 
brother, “ if you’ll walk this way with me — 
it’s too public a place to talk of private affairs.” 
When they had gone some way down a quiet 
alley hard by, Willy said: “Now, I’ll tell 
you, Peter, what brought me. I suppose you 
heard of Mr. Weimar’s death ?” 

“ I did, the stem old sinner, and I wasn’t 
much sorry.” 

“Nay, you must not speak of him so, Pe- 
ter,” said Willy, warmly, “ for he died a sin- 
cere penitent, purified and sanctified by the 
sacraments of our holy church ; and I trust he 
has formd favor before God.” 

“ MTiy !” cried Peter in astonishment, “ do 
you mean to say old Weimar died a Catholic — 
he that was so bigotted against them ?” 

“ It’s as true as that you’re standing there,” 


279 


\ 

said Willy. “ But how did it happen that you 
didn’t hearthat before ?” 

“Well, it was Mr. and Mrs. Watkins that 
I heard speaking about the old man’s death, 
and I suppose they forgot that part of it, — but 
they seemed to think him a very bad man, and 
talked a great deal about such a death as his' 
must have been — so miserable and all that.” 

“ Ay,” exclaimed Willy, with a bitterness 
all unusual to him, “it didn’t serve their pur- 
pose to let you know of Mr. Weimar’s conver- 
sion ; but, be assured, they knew all about it, 
for Mr. Talbot told me he had himself con- 
versed with Mr. Watkins on the subject. And 
as to their speaking so hardly of him, that’s all 
because of his becoming a Catholic. At any 
rate, neither you nor I should be hoard speak- 
ing ill of Mr. Weimar (even if he had been 
such as they said — which he was not) for he 
has left us independent.” 

“ How is that r” 

“ Ho has left me five thousand dollars.” 

“ You don’t say so, Willy ?” 

“ But I do, Peter.” 

“ Why, how in the world did it happen that 
he took such a fancy to you ?” inquired the 
elder brother, in indignant amazement. 

“ Well, I’m sure I don’t know,” said the 
younger, with a blushing face, “ Mr. Talbot 


280 


can tell you all about it a great deal better than 
I can. There’s one thing to be said, at any 
rate, that I can tell you. It was Dawson and 
myself who found poor Weimar lying on the 
street (for we saw him receive the fatal blow), 
and we were present at his death. It was I, 
too, that went for the priest for him, and I be- 
lieve he thought that the best of all.” 

“Really,” said Peter, his countenance dark- 
ening as he spoke, “ I can’t help admiring 
your good fortune. Five thousand dollars, — 
and you not seventeen yet. What in the world 
will you do with it all ? But then I suppose 
you’ll get so purse-proud on our hands that 
you’ll not speak to your poor relations.” 

“ Now Peter ! it’s very unkind of you to 
talk so !” said Willy, the tears starting in his 
eyes. “ Sure wo’nt you have the half of what 
I intend keeping of it — I’m going to leave four 
hundred dollars in the bank for each of the 
girls, and Mr. Talbot says that by the time 
they’re grown up it will be a good deal more 
for them, by means of the interest lying over. 
The two hundred dollars that remains of that 
thousand, I want for some purposes that I’ll 
tell you at another time, and the four thous- 
and I’m going to divide with you — that will be 
two for each of us. I think it will be best for 
us to leave it in the bank till we’re a few years 


281 


older, and then we’ll have it to commence some 
business. Don’t you think that’s the best 
thing to do, Peter 

But Peter could not speak for <6ome mo- 
ments. This generosity on the part of his 
brother touched his heart, and opened it to 
better feelings. During the few mintites that he 
remained silent, his memory rapidly ran over 
the numberless instances wherein during the 
last few years he had outraged and afflic- 
ted his brother he thought how he had trea- 
ted his paternal counsels with scorn and con- 
tempt, and, how he had trampled on the love 
of their early years— and above all, how he 
had deserted the church that Willy loved so, 
well, and ranged himself with her enemies — 
at least he had all but done this— and now, to 
see that brother — so wronged — so disgraced — 
60 outraged— bestow upon him. in return, the 
half of his little fortune— truly it was more 
than Peter could bear,the long buried affection 
of early youth btxrst forth again, and when 
he clasped his brother’s hand, and murmured, 
» God bless you, Willy !— God bless you !” 
that brother felt that a change— a mighty 
change— had passed over his spirit,and he said 
within himself— 

“ I thank thee, oh God ! I thank and bless 
thee— thy gift -has, indeed, regained for me 


282 


th.G long-lost ulFection of my brother. Now, 
sweet Virgin mother ! that I have succeeded 
so far, I know thou wilt help me in the yet 
more important attempt to be made !” 

“ Well ! now that you find that I’m not 
“ too proud to speak to my poor relations,’ as 
you said a w'hile ago,” said Willy, with a cheer- 
ful smile, “ w'ill you just come with me and 
sec jSIr. Talbot, for I want to ask his advice 
about our money ! and then he’ll be so glad 
to see you, and so will Mrs. Talbot.” 

Peter hesitated, and blushed deeply. “ But 
then I don’t like to go,” he said, “ Mr. Talbot 
mus; thiirlt me so ungrateful ; in short, he 
never got much reason to think well of me> 
and that’s the truth, so I’m ashamed to go !’» 

“Nonsense, Peter,” said his brother, taking 
hold of his arm, “ you never committed any 
shameful action in regard to Mr. Talbot, that 
you need fear to meet him ; and even if you 
did, take my w'ord for it he’d be overjoyed to 
see you repenting of it.” 

“Well! well! I don’t lilce to refuse you, 
Willy,” said Peter, making an elFort to over- 
come his unwillingness. “ But then I have 
to go home first, as I h ave some money 
hero for Mrs. Watkins, that I know she’s w'ait- 
iiig for ; after I givt Ho her. I’ll go with you 
for a little while.” 

“Then I’ll go with you,’’ said Willy quick- 


283 


ly, “foiT I know of old that Mrs. Watkins 
doesn’t want you to be on good terms with 
me, and she might persuade you to stay at 
home.” 

“ Oh never fear,” was the answer, she’ll be 
so glad to hear of our good fortune, that she’ll 
have no objection for me to go to see Jlr. Tal- 
bot. But really its too bad that you have so 
bad an opinion of Mr. and Mrs. Watkins, after 
all they’ve done for us, — for me at least. I’m 
sure if Mrs. Watkins had been my own mo- 
ther, she couldn’t have done more for me. 
And, what do you think, WiUy ?” he said, 
drawing close to his brother, and speaking in 
a lower tone, “ I have strong hopes that they’ll 
make me their heir ; do you hear that ?” 

“ Never believe it, Peter, never believe it !” 
said Willy, with sudden warmth of manner ; 
“ they who suggested that hope were but mak- 
ing merry with your credulity,and a few hours 
after the meeting with you, they twdtted me 
with your being about to turn Protestant for 
the sake of Mr. Watkins’s fortune,though they 
didn’t forget to tell me at the same time that 
Mr. Watkins has a nephew in Savannah, who 
is sure to be his heir.” 

“Well! if that be true,” said Peter, his face 
flaming with anger, “ that Wilson is the great- 
est vil.ain unhanged.” 

“It is true,” said Willy, “but there’s no use 


234 


in railing against Wilson, or any other one ; 
the only thing is, be on your guard against 
such schemers for the future. But here we 
are at Mr. Watkins’s. I’ll go in with you,but 
I hope you’ll not stay long.” 

Peter opened the door with a latch-key,and 
seeing the parlor door open, he told Willy, in 
a low voice, to go in there, and wait for him. 
“ I’ll be back,” said he, “in a few minutes.” 

Peter had not yet reached the door, when 
he suddenly stopped, hearing his owm name 
mentioned in the adjoining room, which was 
only separated from the parlor by folding 
doors. The speaker Avas undoubtedly Mrs* 
Watkins, but what had she said that made Pe- 
ter Burke change color so ?” 

“ Yes !” said the lady, continuing her dis- 
course, “ I have great hopes that the meeting 
Avill go off well, provided you can get this 
Burke to come forward and bear testimony 
against Rome. Only let us prevail upon the 
silly fellow to appear on the platform as one 
who has abjured the errors of popery, and, my 
life for it ! your collection will be a first-rate 
one. The lad is good-looking, Irish and all as 
he IS, and as a commrt from the Romish 
Church, he will become the great lion of the 
day. The reason why your collections do not 
turn-out well latterly, is, the great dearth of 
novelty, and if you can parade this young fel- 


28.5 


low as one who has just broken the chains of 
Rome, &C.&C., under your spiritual guidance, 
you will find your account in it, I assure you.” 

“ Yes !” replied a voice that Peter knew to 
be that of Mortimer, “ but 1 much fear that I 
cannot, of myself, persuade the lad to ap]7ear. 
I know the effect would be most beneficial to 
our interests, but these Irish papists are so ob- 
stinately attached to the Church of Rome, that 
they are scarcely to be tempted to come forth 
from her ; they hug their chains, dear Mrs. 
Watkins ! and laugh at our boasted liberty. 
This boy, though he appears to us wavering, 
mav be at heart as much a Catholic as ever. 
But if you will try your powers of persuasion, 
dear and lovely, end bewitching as you are, he 
cannot, he will not refuse. Do, sweet friend! 
and the minister’s voice assumed a softer tone, 
“do, and you will bind Frederick Mortimer 
by yet another chain, for it much imports me 
to have this Bible meeting crowned with suc- 
cess.” 

“ I will try what I can do,” said Mrs. Wat- 
kins in reply, ” since you think my persuasive 
powers so great, they shall be all put forth in 
your .service, and I think I may venture to 
promise that this hopeful youth will grac.e your 
platform as a convert. Oh 1 how the priests 
will gnash their teeth, and how all good, pious 
Methodists will rejoice on the occasion, though 


286 


Dctwecn ourselves the fellow is not worth 
much.” 

Willy Burke had. approached his brother, 
Intending to propose that they should leave 
the room, for he did not wish to remain where 
he was an eavesdropper, although unuitontion- 
ally. But Peter stood as though transfixed, 
nor attempted to move from the spot until he 
had heard all, then turning, he caught his bro- 
ther b}' the arm, and dtew him out into the 
hall, without saying a word. His face was 
pale as death, and he appeared literally gasp- 
ing for breath. Calling a servant, however, 
he handed to him the note which contained 
the money, and telling him to give it to Mr. 
Watkins without any delay, 'he motioned for 
Willy to follow,and hastened to quit the house 
as though he feared to remain a moment lon- 
ger. Neither spoke for some minures after 
they left the door, but suddenly Peter stopped 
and turned full on his brother : 

“ Now, with God’s help, Y‘ illy. I’ll never 
set foot in that house again, for it just seems 
to me as if it was the gate of hell. "WTulo I 
•was listening to that precious discourse the 
veil fell from my eyes, and now I can see the 
fearful danger I -was in.” 

“ Well,” said Willy, as he -wiped away with 
his hand the tears of joy that suffused his eyes, 
“ I was afraid to see you going in that time. 


287 


but now I sec it was God himself that con- 
ducted us there at that moment, so that you 
might see and hear, from the mouths of your 
pretended friends, the object they had really ^ 
in view. But I’m not the least surprised, for 
when I went into the church on my way here 
and besought the powerful aid of the ^Mother 
of God in saving you from the snares laid for 
you, I hadn’t yet finished my prayer when I 
fclfi^surcd that it a^ould be granted. No one 
ever comes away disappointed that prays to 
that loving Mother with a pure intention. Be- 
sides, Peter, I know very well that God sent 
me that legacy that I might have a proof of 
my affection to give you, and so to soften your 
heart. You see yourself how beautifully all 
this has come round to bring you back to the 
way of salvation, from which you were every 
day going farther away.” 

“ I do, I do, WUly,” said Peter, fervently, 

“ and I see, too, all that I owe to you. Ah, 
brother, brother, when you -vv’cre before the al- 
tar that time praying for me, it’s little thoughts 
I had of either God. or you. Now, thank 
God, I am sensible of all that you have done 
for me. I see that your two thousand dollars 
is but a small thing, a mere trifle, compared 
with what your pious prayers have obtained 
for mo ; whore are we going now r” 

“To tell you the truth,” said Willy, with a 


smile, “I had planned to take you to Father 
O’Hara’s on our way to Mr. Talbot’s, for I 
knew that you didn’t know where he lived,and 
I wanted to try the effect of his persuasions on 
you, if mine had failed. I suppose you’ve no 
objection to come now r” 

“Noneat all,” replied his brother, “it’s the 
very thing I’d wish for.” 

Great was the joy of Father O’Hara when 
he learned from Peter hhnself the wondrous 
change that divine grace had operated on his 
soul. “ I told your reverence,” said the now 
happy "Willy, “ that our protectress wouldn’t 
forsake us now. You see she has obtained 
for us far more than we dared to ask — blessed 
be her name for ever.” 

“ Amen !” responded Dawson, as he enter- 
ed, for he, in turn, had been a listener in the 
vestibule. “I see you’re surprised, Peter,” he 
said, addressing the latter, “ surprised to hear 
such language from my mouth, but don’t be 
surprised, mider God, I am indebted for my 
conversion to the Blessed Virgin, for when I 
was yet only seeking the truth, groping about 
in the dark, as it were, your brother, there, 
prevailed upon me to invoke her aid ; and I 
can solemnly assure you that I was not slow 
in experiencing the effects of her intercession. 
I am now a Catholic, thanks bj to God for 
all his mercies, and I can truly say what I 


289 


heard Mr. AVcimar say in his last moments, 
▼iz., that I owe my conversion in a great de- 
gree to your brother’s good example, so beau- 
tifully illustrating Catholic faith and Catholic 
morality.” 

Peter could not speaH ; for the second time 
that evening liis heart Avas too full for words 
but he turned and took his brother’s hand and 
pressed it between his OAvn in silent admira- 
tion. When he could speak, his e.xclamation 
was, “ My brother ! you are indeed the wor- 
thy 8071 of our pious parents ; henceforwardi 
with God’s assistance, I will endeavor to imi- 
tate their example and yours. Oh, sir,” he 
said, addressing the priest, “ you don’t know 
how far gone I was in wickedness — it frightens 
me now to look back to where I stood two 
hours ago, ivhen my dear, dear brother, like 
the good shepherd, came after me and brought 
me home ; surely, he has saved me from the 
wild beasts that were lying in wait for me. — 
Would your reverence lend me a pen and ink 
for a moment ?” 

He got the pen and ink, and in a few mo-^ 
ments he handed the following note to his- 
brother to read. 

*• Mrs. Watkins, 

Peter Eurke — that 'silly fellow ' that *is noi 
worth much at the best ’ (according to your kind 
recommendation), takes this opportunity to 

.i 


290 


thank you for all the favors you and Mr. "NV at- 
kins have conferred on him, especially for the 
last, when you proposed to do him the honor 
of appearing at a great Bible meeting to ‘ hear 
testimony ’ — but as said Peter has no wish to 
be ‘ the great lion of the day,’ he’ll just take 
himself off. He sends his compliments to wor- 
thy Mr. Mortimer, and assures him that his 
opinion of ‘ Irish papists ’ is about right, as far 
as himself is concerned — he is a Catholic at 
heart, though unworthy of being called so, by 
reason of the scandal he has given in listening 
to such evil counsellors as you and Mr. Morti- 
mer.” 

” Short, but not very sweet ! ” was "Willy’s 
observation, as he hanied the note to Father 
O’Hara, and requested him to read it aloud. 

After a little more conversation with the 
priest and Daw'son, the brothers took their 
leave, and proceeded to the house of Mr. Tal- 
bot, where Peter was kindly, even cordially 
welcomed. How his heart throbbed with joy 
as he received the friendly congratulations of 
Mr. Talbot and his amiable wife — congratula- 
tions which he knew (and fell) were sincere. 
It was agreed upon, in the course of the eve- 
ning, that for the present the four thousand 
dollars was to be invested in railway shares, 
which IMr. Talbot believed the most profitable 
jnethod of using it. The brothers willingly 


291 


acceded to his proposal to remain in his em- 
ployment for the time being — “ With an in- 
crease of salary, however,” said the generous 
merchant. “ Dawson’s place is now vacant; 
he having been advanced to that which had 
been Wilson’s ; if you have no objection, Peter# 
you can have it, and Willy will assist me in 
the office, as I have now to take poor Mr. 
Weimar’s post.” 

The proposal was gratefully accepted, as 
may readily be believed, and bidding Mr. and 
Mrs. Talbot good night, Peter and Willy took, 
their way together to the well-known domicile 
where good Mrs. Malcolm held sway. The 
worthy housekeeper w'as profuse in her con- 
gratulations to both brothers ; the one on his 
recent accession of wealth, and the other on 
his escape from the net in which the specious 
arts of the seducer had held him for so long a 
time. “But I ken’d vera weel,” said she 
“ that God wad na’ let you go unrewarded# 
even in this world, Willy ; I beg your pardon, 

I should ca’ you Mr. Burke, now that you’ve 
come into so much riches ! ” 

“No, no, no, dear Mrs. Malcolm,” cried 
Willy, with a merry laugh, “ just call me Wil- 
ly : you’d make me ashamed if you’d begin to 
call me Mr., for the title would’nt sit easy on 
a young lad like me.” 

“Ah, I forgot,” said Mrs. Malcolm, “that a 


292 


Christian canna’ be proud of money or any 
earthly good. Vera wcel, vera weel, you’ll 
still bo Willy Burke, that’s a guid laddie ! ” 
and so saying, the old lady waddled away, to 
sec after some household matter. 

Next day the brothers went to churcli to- 
gether at six o’clock, and side by side the}' re- 
turned thanks to that God who had blessed 
them beyond measure. Then it was that Pe- 
ter Burke felt a soothing calm, long unknown, 
stealing through his mind ; it was the gentle^ 
the beneficent influence of religion, of that re- 
ligion which before he had never appreciated ; 
now he began in sober earnest to estimate its 
value. It is true that he was still weighed 
down by the remembrance of his manifold 
sins, but the grace of true contrition was not 
withheld from him, and he trusted in the good- 
ness of God for pardon for the past, and 
strength to avoid sin for the time to come. 
When Mass was over and they leaving the 
church, Peter told his brother that he would 
go to confession in the course of the evening, 
and Willy, as may wellbeiniagined, heard the 
announcement with unmixed satisfaction, for 
now he knew that his brother was sincerely 
ftonverted. 

After leaving the office that evcning,the two 
brothers went first to confession, and then has- 


293 


toned to impart joy to the loving hearts of their 
young sisters. / 

It is not easy to conceive the rapture with 
Avhich Alice and Bridget heard the glad tid- 
ings. They both sprang into Peter’s out- 
stretched arms, and fairly sobbed out, — then 
they drew back to look at him again, as though 
they feared the evidence of their eyes. 

“Well, to be sure,” cried Alice, wiping away 
with her pretty apron her fast-falling tears, 
well, to be sure, but that is good news. It’s 
a fine thing to hoar that we’re all so rich now, 
thanks be God and our dear brother Willy, 
but the best of all is Peter’s getting good again. 
Oh, indeed it is.” 

“And Peter,” asked Bridget, “ won’t you 
be good to us now, like Willy — and won’t you 
bo coming to church with us again — and to 
pray at mother’s grave, too ? Oh, Peter, if 
you’d see how long the grass is on it now ; and 
there’s so many little flow’ers, wild flowers, 
growing among the grass. Now you’ll come 
next Sunday, won’t you ?” 

“ I will, indeed, Bridget, dear, please God,” 
said Peter, his voice husky with emotion, and 
his eyes filled wdth tears. 

Here Mrs. Williams entered, and the whole 
story was gone over again for her. Great was 
the joy of that true friend, but a cloud gather- 


294 


od on, her face as a saddening idea presented 
itself to her mind. “ I’m afraid you’ll be tak- 
ii^ my girls from me,” she said, “ now that 
you have become rich.” 

“ No, indeed, Mrs. Williams,” said Peter 
and Willy together, and the latter added, “not 
on any account, if you still wish to keep 
them. It was God that put it in your heart to 
take them ; you have been a mother to them ; 
be so still, in God’s name, and with His bless- 
ing. We corildn’t place them in better hands, 
until such time as they’re able to do for them- 
selves. By that time I hope they’ll be so well 
grounded in their faith, that there will be no 
danger of it slipping from them.” 

Mrs. Williams was delighted to hear this, 
and voluntarily renewed her promise to be a 
mother, as far as she could, to the interesting 
charge that heaven itself had committed to her 
keeping. 

From Mrs. Williams’s the young men went 
to Mrs. O’ Grady’s, and they fomid that wor- 
thy woman and her family mourning around 
the death-bed of the husband and father. Po- 
verty was in and around the dwelling, and 
amid all their sorrow for him who was about 
to leave them, his wife and children could 
scarcely vrish that his life might be spared, so 
great were the privations they were all called 


295 


upon to bear. This was no time for communi- 
cating their own good fortune, so the brothers 
went away without saying a word about their 
own affairs. Next day, however, Willy Burke, 
Avith Peter’s consent (Avhich he took care to 
ask, as though it had been necessary,) drew 
fifty dollars from the bank, and when, that 
same night, he and his brother repeated their 
visit, they brought joy to the house of mourn- 
ing. Death Avas there, it is true^ for poor Bar- 
ney O’ Grady had departed in the course of 
the previous night, but they gladdened the 
hearts of the desolate AA-idoAv and her children 
by a gift Avhich raised them for that time above 
Avant — enabled them to bury their dead in a 
respectable manner, and as Mrs. O’Grady said: 

“ It’ll leave something in our hands, besides,, 
to commence some little business Avhen we get 
things settled. May the great God roAvard 
you, Willy Burke and Peter, for all that you've ^ 
done for me and mine. An’ He will, you may 
bo sure He Avill. An’ sure isn’t He giA-in’ you 
now the reward of your mother’s good works. 
Glory be to His holy name !” 

“ It is very true, Peter,” said Willy to his 
brother, when they had quitted the house, ‘ it 
is very true what poor Mrs. O Grady says, 
the great blessings that we haA^e received, and' 
are receiving, are, I doubt not, the hundred- 


296 


fold reward which the Christian virtues of our 
parents induced the Lord to bestow, even on 
us, their unworthy children.” 

Before they went home they purchased a 
handsome present for good JIrs. Malcolm, 
“ Who stood my friend,” said "Willy, “ when, 
except Dawson, there was not one to speak for 
me.” It was a piece of rich silk for a dress, 
and never was young queen newly crowned 
prouder of her jewelled diadem than was the 
worthy Scotch woman of her dress. 

“ For, ” said she, “ it is na the value o’ the 
thing that I hand account of — na, na, it’s the 
gratitude o’ the laddie that mak’s me set sac 
muckle store by his present. You see, lad- 
dies,” addressing the other j'oung men, “ that 
when riches came into his hands, he did na 
forget the auld Scotch wife, nae mau than an- 
ither.” 

Dawson and the two Burkes were hencefor- 
W'ard bound in the strictest bonds of friend- 
ship, and all three made themselves respected 
wherever they were known by their scrupul- 
ous observance of the divme virtues inculcated 
by the Church, as the oracle of truth. After 
a few years they commenced business together, 
under the friendly auspices of Mr. Talbot, and 
Dawson married Alice Burke, then a lovely 
girl of eighteen. The younger sister soon af- 


2!)7 


ter gave her hard to a Avoalthy planter from 
the South (a connection of Mr. Talbot’s), who 
had been attracted not less by her modest and 
retiring virtues than by her personal charms. 

About six years after Mr. "Weimar’s death, 
and just after the marriage of Bridget Burke, 
Peter happened to take up a newspaper one 
evening, but suddenly he let it fall, exclaim- 
ing : “ How terrible arc thy judgments, oh 
Lord ! Great art thou in thy mercy and good- 
ness to those who love and serve thee, but aw*- 
ful thou art, O God, in chastising the wicked.” 

“ Why, what have you there r” cried one 
and another anxiously. 

“ Bead for yourselves I” he said, laying the 
p.aj>cr on the table. 

“Alas !” said Willy, with a deep sigh, when 
he had read the paragrajjh pointed out by Pe- 
ter, “alas ! poor, miserable Wilson ! — what a 
fate was yours. This accounts for our never 
having heard any tiring of him since that ter- 
rible deed was done. He had long since en- 
tered. it seems, on a sea-faring life, and his ship 
was just coming into harbor here when a fire 
broke out on board. The greater part of the 
crew escaped from the burning vessel, but of 
the four men w'ho, being unable to get off in 
time wore burned up, one was ‘ George Wilson, 
H ttjUiee of Perth, Scotland, aged 29.' That this 


298 


was our'unhappy acquaintance of former days 
none may doubt.” 

“ And such might have been my fate, too,” 
said Peter, raising his hands and eyes to hea- 
ven, “ hadst thou not recalled me, my God, 
from the way of sin and error to the safe and 
pleasant path which conducts to eternal life. 
Oh, that every Catholic boy who is thrown at 
an early ago on his own resources could hear 
my story, and learn from my example the dan- 
ger of tampering with the enemies of his faith.” 

My Tale is now at an end. I have endea- 
vored to delineate for my young readers the 
part which a Catholic boy is called upon to 
act in society, and have shown to the best of 
my ability the beneficial results which may 
accrue from the fulfilment of his duty, not 
only as regards himself but those who are un- 
happily wandering in the wilderness without 
the pale of the Church. I have sought to 
place Religion before the youthful reader as 
she really is — mild, and cheerful, and soften- 
ing in her influence. Would that I could but 
paint her even one half as lovely as she is, and 
the portrait would suffice to attract and attach 
the young to her service. 


THE END. 


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HECKMAN 

BINDERY INC. 


1992 


N. MANCHESTER, 
INDIANA 46962 





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